Observations
by Wolfox6
Summary: Compilation of one-shots based on a DA:O & Awakenings HNR playthrough. Some are dark, some satirical - all are an attempt to see the Blight and outcome of quests through mostly NPC perspectives...each chapter is more or less my answer to many of my own questions, and a couple will contain references to a pc mod where both Loghain and Alistair are GWs. Chapter 29 - Niall.
1. Amaranthine's Wardens

_Dragon Age: Origins/Awakenings belong to BioWare…_

-.-

Wind and rain attacked the embattled group with increasing ferocity, transforming the road beneath their feet into a slow-moving stream of mud. Their hurried pace had slackened considerably, every step more and more laborious as day became night. Especially dispiriting were the endless piles of mangled bodies left behind in the Horde's wake, strewn carelessly across the countryside. As the bloody sludge clutched at their boots, the constant struggle to keep afoot ripped away what little hope they had left. Sporadic lightning flashed across the darkening sky, momentarily highlighting the twisting, billowing cloud of smoke wafting across the horizon, guiding them to their destination.

Vigil's Keep, once believed to be an nigh-impenetrable sanctuary, was no longer a safe haven. The darkspawn's _second_ invasion of their sacred lair had shown them how relentless, and remorseless, the dark ones truly were. More than likely, they would find her nothing more than a wretched, broken gathering of ancient stone and mortar, streaked with red and black rivulets of blood. The newer Wardens had yet to witness the aftermath of an unchecked darkspawn rampage.

Soldiers, knights, and freemen guarding the Keep would have little choice but to stand against the invasion of the darkspawn horde in the absence of the Wardens. _They_ deserved the greatest praise for facing such formidable opponents, all too aware of the poison in their enemy's blood. The dark army was insatiable in its desire for complete destruction of surface life, bitter hatred the only motivation.

As determined as they were exhausted, the group trudged mindlessly on through the mire, drawing closer to the fortress. The battle to save the City of Amaranthine was over, but the war was not. They had to prepare themselves for the losses, the _darkness, _ahead.

The Commander of the Grey Wardens momentarily halted in mid-stride. Images of past tragedies flashed through her mind: _Highever, Ostagar, Redcliffe, Kinloch Hold, and Denerim_. She remembered the horror of facing the darkspawn forces in person _and_ in nightmares - nightmares that these Wardens had not yet been hardened to.

The new Wardens would have to learn of their enemy's ways through trial by fire, as she had, and they soon would come to understand the possibility of sacrificing their own kith, all the time trying to make sense of their own seemingly destructive actions. How else could they learn that the Grey Warden creed was far more crucial to their existence than mere words spoken to remember the fallen? Amaranthine's newest heroes still had to realize that their duty included destroying the blight-inflicted without compassion or hesitation, and one day they would learn of the soulless hatred - the _insanity_ - the tainted blood gave them in the end. _Then_ they would need to make the final choice; become the enemy, or face certain death while killing them.

Her former life of power and prestige had not prepared her for the experience of being a fabled Grey Warden. All that remained from her past life was the understanding of Duty. That which had sustained her throughout the bloody demise of her family, allowed her to walk away from a shattered heart, and finally accept the encroaching death of her soul. Only one in the group understood the depth of her loss, as he had lost even more.

Alas, even duty had its limits, and she could feel the time of her leadership coming to an end. Meeting the eyes of her companions was becoming more and more difficult, the guilt too much to bear.

If only she could have explained _what_ they had to do, _how long_ they had left, and _how lonely_ the next few years would be _before_ they underwent the Joining. As a reluctant Grey Warden herself, she believed the secretive nature of the Joining to be a form of betrayal of their humanity, as well as to their dignity. And now her companions simmered with barely contained rage, desperation, and despair - similar to what she'd felt at her own Joining.

Elissa Cousland glanced at them, sympathy gleaming in her haunted eyes for the briefest of moments, before focusing once more on the road.

_Perhaps they were ready, after all._


	2. Hessarian & Andraste

_BioWare created the Spirit of Mercy, and the Prophet..._

_I made this one up...  
_

O.O

_[Decades before the 5th Blight]_

Barely discernible, a man knelt in the gently swirling mist wafting throughout the eerily silent hall. "I call upon You, my Lady, to request a boon."

The shimmering shape of a woman suddenly appeared before him, tall and regal in her bearing. "What is this boon, merciful one?" she asked, her soft voice echoing off unseen walls.

"Darkspawn are almost upon the lair of a sleeping demon, my Lady," he replied. "I wish to return to Thedas to protect the last of Your children from it."

The apparition was briefly silent before speaking. "You are aware that our beloved Maker wishes little interference in this matter?" she queried, her brow furrowed.

He cleared his throat, and glanced around, obviously nervous in his search for another. "Yes, my Lady. I am also aware that the last of Your living bloodline resides in Ferelden. Without assistance, the land will be overcome by darkness, Your lineage gone forever."

"Perhaps it is time for my blood to fade from the surface." A pensive look crossed the woman's face. "I am troubled by those who claim to speak my truth. Too many have found ways to dishonour what I lived and died for." She shook her head sadly. "I have listened with great dismay as fanatics spout their distorted versions of my message, and watched as many whose ancestors helped to set us free find little welcome amongst my worshipers. What would you be saving them from?"

"I wish to save Your children from ancient evil. I have not forgotten Your last moments of life, my Lady," he said with bowed head and closed eyes, allowing painful memories to flood his vision. "I watched Your followers as the flames flickered about Your ankles; I saw the elven tears, heard the human cries. When I ended Your life, it was for their sake as much as for Yours." He raised his head to look up at her, deep sorrow etched across his face.

Flowing through the mist, she knelt before him, covering his clasped hands with her own. "You believe you can redeem the actions of the misguided by walking amongst them once more? You think _your_ mercy to be enough to save them from their own ignorance?"

"Allow me the deed of ending the Song of the dark ones," he begged. "This may give Your children the time to change and grow with Your spirit to guide them."

The woman smiled. "Or, perhaps _your_ spirit is what will cause the change. Perhaps _your_ spirit can lead them. _You_ may be the one needed to show them my truth." She chuckled warmly. "This is a boon I _can_ grant. There will be complications, though, in your new life."

Awed by her closeness, he managed to whisper. "For You, my Lady, I will face anything."

"To face the ignorance you will meet up with in your new life, you will need the guidance of my teachings. You will need humility to harbour my truth, and loneliness to hear my whispers in your dreams. Most importantly, you must learn to be my Warrior - my Champion. Not an easy path for any man."

"I am ever Your servant, my Lady," he answered joyously.

"Then consider your boon granted." She rose to stand over him, shaking her head slightly. "You will not be the people's Hero in this time, as one has already been chosen."

At his obvious disappointment, the lady smiled indulgently. "Worry not, merciful one, for you will be my shield and sword. You will be the one to transform bitterness and despair into peace and acceptance." She placed a hand upon his shoulder. "You might even love our chosen one, though she may not return the gift. She will be bound by a duty that allows for little else. You, however, will earn the adoration of a kingdom, and greatness through history."

Andraste beckoned him to stand. "Once you have returned to the surface, you will forget the words I have spoken here. I, though, will not have forgotten; I will be with you every step of the way." Sorrow flitted over her face as she stepped back. "Farewell for now, Merciful One." With a wave of her hand, the ethereal form of the man once known as Archon Hessarian vanished from her presence.

.

_The baby bawled as he dangled upside down._

_"Have you chosen a name for him?" asked the healer._

_"Alistair," gasped the woman. "The defender of man."_

_.  
_

O.O

_Many thanks to__** mutive, **__and__[ahem]__** TEH MOST POWERFUL FLAMER EVER**__...your words made my day! XD_


	3. Alistair

_Bioware created…_

Q.Q

Blustering cold winds blasted at him from every direction as he struggled to pass through the doorway onto the rooftop. The howling of countless ghosts battered his mind and body, swirling around him in a storm of bitter rage. A few months ago, the fate of Ferelden had rested upon the shoulders of these furious souls. The Archdemon may have been destroyed, but the dead could not yet find their rest. Ferelden had been torn asunder by the careless machinations of a false king along with his ruthless butcher. The wounds from their bloodthirsty actions festered still.

"_Release us,_" they begged. "_Heal us_..."

Exactly how he was to do _that_, he did not know. He was a Warrior. A Champion. Trained to be a Templar. Releasing the wretched, tortured phantoms of battle was beyond his ability. They had bravely faced the horrific tainted horde, and lost their lives to it. Having sacrificed themselves without reservation, they now demanded retribution.

In their place, a monstrous man had become the Hero. A tyrant had redeemed himself in the eyes of the living by taking the killing blow, and now _his_ body resided in the sacred halls of Weisshaupt. Blessed by the Chantry. Honoured by the Grey Wardens.

No wonder the dead were so outraged.

Faded bloodstains covered the rooftop in a rusty hue all around him. The stains lay in testament to the unholy war that had ended here; but, spilt blood was not enough for these dishonoured spirits of humans, dwarves, and elves. Civil war, misplaced devotion, and brutal subjugation had left deep scars long before they had died. He could hear their cries, for they echoed his own feelings of bitterness, and displacement.

As the senior Grey Warden at the time_, he_ should have taken the final blow. _He_ should have ended the war. _She_ betrayed him. Betrayed their blood pact. And now the fallen called to him to end their pain. It was his duty to find a way to guide them to peace, but _how?_

He closed his red-rimmed eyes. _Concentrate. Focus. Remember the training the Chantry had struggled to teach a young, rebellious boy._

Then he saw her. The statue of Andraste transformed into flesh - the noble slave to duty. A long forgotten promise whispered in his heart.

She was the key. To heal _her_ was to heal Ferelden, freeing the tormented ones.

Opening his eyes, he laughed hollowly, clenching his hands in impotent rage. He'd named her Hero of Ferelden. Titled her with the Arling of Amaranthine. Put the future of Ferelden's Order of Grey Wardens in her care. It was his only avenue for revenge. If he was to die slowly and quietly in his prison of a Palace, he would make sure she suffered the same fate.

With the Blight over, and most of the darkspawn returned to the Deep Roads, the Wardens still faced endless days of struggling against the thrumming connection to the taint. Endless hours of living with the hatred simmering beneath their skin - diminishing their intellect - while their souls slowly dissipated in the constant battle of mind over body. If he could not find peace or forgiveness within _himself,_ how could he help _her_?

He turned his gaze towards Amaranthine. She was out there: fighting, leading, encouraging, and honouring all she met. She deserved to rest, but he knew she wouldn't. Couldn't. That damnable sense of duty she had been taught to fulfill. It would be the death of her. A death she seemed to welcome, judging by the look in her eyes the last time they spoke.

King Alistair blinked rapidly, feeling the sting of salt in his eyes. Old feelings rose up against new realities, and memories best left forgotten threatened to overwhelm him.

For Ferelden to become whole again, the Hero had to find her heart, and had to mend her shattered soul. Ferelden _needed_ her devotion. He had once promised to stand by her side, no matter the cost. He would have to find a way.

As her Champion, he _had_ to save her.

Q.Q

_**Thank you: Corvus corone, Shakespira and ArtemysFayr! More grimness to come!**__**  
**_


	4. Demon

_BioWare created…_

*.*

Rapidly diminishing, It frantically searched for a new body to hold Its power. With little time left, It felt much like a withered leaf caught up in the current of a raging river. The winds pummeled, and the rains pounded, threatening to extinguish It completely. Assaulted from all sides, It fought to find a path through the shifting gusts, honing in on the distant flickering lights It had so desperately clung to for guidance. For the first time in Ages, It began to know fear. It needed another host _now_.

Complacent, perhaps arrogant because of Its previous omniscience, It knew now that mocking the Warden when she'd returned to the Wilds for the third time had been Its gravest mistake. The tome was offered to placate the Warden, to send her on her way. Alas, the girl would not be denied the quest. Her friendship and honour were at stake, apparently. _Bah!_ Friendship and honour meant nothing to one as powerful, as _ancient_ as It. Why would one who knew the secrets of the _Old Gods_ fear such a fragile, little thing?

Foolish ego had overcome good sense, even though It had been fully aware of the limitations of the aging body. How shameful, being bested by a child. With the help of a Chantry boy! And an elderly woman _herself_ possessed! Oh, and let us not forget that disdainful giant!

Pride had assured the outcome of the battle. Conceit had been Its downfall.

It felt the pulsation of power suddenly pierce through the surging tempest. Ah yes, _yes_! Light! So many brilliant flashes of light blazing up from down below! _No_! The tower of magi! No safety here! Hated warriors guarded the beams of light. Faceless helmed ones zealously destroyed any who tried to bond with the bodies of magic.

Turning away in frustration, It wished for a voice to scream forth Its fury. Again It fought the storm, and suddenly felt the presence of another potential vessel close to the soil of Its summoning, so many centuries ago.

_Highever_.

It remembered _her,_ and how she begged for aid - her desperation allowing for _any_ kind of assistance. It had answered her cries with only one request in return; It yearned to be alive, free from the shackles of the Fade. When bonding with her body, then consuming her soul, It _became_ her, and fled to another land to learn _how_ to be human. Surpassing the limited abilities of Its first body had been a priority. Afterward, It hungered to manipulate the forests, and the creatures therein. Her physical senses provided astonishing new experiences for It to explore. The Fade did not contain such wonders.

Highever had been claimed by new caretakers shortly after the death of Conobar. The Warden was one of these caretakers. Had It known _then _what It knew _now_, It would have destroyed Highever and all within, and then burnt the land right down to the Deep Roads.

It may _still_ do that, yet.

Desperately searching for the source of magic, It drew closer to the earth. At last! Success! A new form was found! This one, though, was alien. Different from the other humans. Male, as well. Unfortunate. It preferred female form, craving that which held the essence of the land: the curve of mountains, the secretive depths of caverns, the waters of life. Males were useless, in Its opinion, for they wasted much of their energy in attempts to spread their seed, leaving them incapable of containing the power of It for long. Nonetheless, It would claim this one's body for now, while waiting for the one It had raised to cease her rebellious ways and return, allowing It to take her form as It meant to from the start.

Either way, once again, It would be Flemeth.

*.*

_**Thank you's to: Shakespira, ArtemysFayr, Piceron, and Mi'lae I'Batir!**_


	5. Morrigan

_BioWare created..._

=.=

Completely exhausted, she lay panting beneath the leafy thicket, shivering as the cold damp air seeped through her matted coat. The smell of wet fur was cause enough for her snout to wrinkle in disgust. 'Twould be days before she was in a place safe enough to bathe. Steady yet grueling, the speed of her travel was crucial for her survival. She had no wish to return to the kingdom of the newly crowned idiot, but alas, there were few options left.

Carefully licking the blood from cracked and scraped pads, she _almost_ _prayed _for the journey be over, and worth the loss of her dignity. Flexing her paws to reach clotted blood between the nails, she had to stifle a whine - the pain was too intense to continue her ministrations. She would have to change back to heal herself, but not yet. The whispers were becoming louder, more insistent. Only in animal form could she escape detection.

The murmuring had started shortly after she had abandoned her friend…nay, _her_ _sister, _before the final battle of the Blight. To this day, she was _still_ incensed over the Warden's decision to choose death, rather than allow the rebirth of an Old God. The Ancient Ones weren't demons. They were pure, unadulterated _power_. What was it about power that unnerved the Warden so? Hmm. Perhaps the mention of _Flemeth_ had caused the needless worry.

After leaving the Warden and companions to their fate in Redcliffe, she had traveled to the northern border in her favoured form. Few gave a wolf more than a cursory glance in those dark days. The advance of the darkspawn horde had terrified the people, making them blind to other dangers. They were better off remaining ignorant of the real peril, for it was a menace too great for their little minds to handle - her avenging mother in spirit form. None lived to tell the tale when Flemeth flew into a murderous rage. Their bodies lay forgotten, rotting in the swamps.

Fearing for her life, and soul, she had fled to a far-off land in case the vengeful spirit began to search for _her_. And now the softly sighing voice was becoming too mesmerizing in its insidious seductiveness to resist.

The rocky hilltop she lay upon gave her a panoramic view of the land below. The Waking Seas - supposed birthplace of a woman who later became a Prophet, inspiring nations to become slaves to a twisted dream of freedom. She snorted. Only fools followed one dead for centuries. Blind faith created nothing more than empty minds and lowly ambitions in the eyes of those with _real_ power. And who now lived to say whether or not Andraste had been a mage? Fanatical faith had been the cause of her greatest fear when she was just a child. The Andrastian's most mindless servants, the Templars, had tried to capture her time and time again; only Flemeth was able to destroy them.

And now, the only one to ever defeat her mother had become a last ray of hope, though the cost of swallowing her pride to seek such help might well be the end of her.

Birds twittered cheerlessly above, their normal vibrancy quieted by the chill. The rustle of tiny creatures searching for their next meal reminded her of an empty belly, but she didn't have the energy to hunt. Her paws ached and throbbed, causing the rumble in her stomach to go unnoticed. She needed healing more than food. Lowering her furry head to rest upon the ground between her forelegs, she emitted a long, throaty groan.

_"Sleep_," the voice gently hummed. "_Let me see you_. _Come to the Fade_."

Startled, she lifted her head in alarm, ears pricked up and flickering instinctively. _No! _She was too close to her destination - too close to the one whose aid she sought. Only a day or so more, and the whispers would cease. Surely her savior would not deny her request for protection.

Grunting softly, she slowly shifted the weight of her body over her paws, and gingerly raised herself up. Opening her jaws to gently grasp the small leather pouch lying on the ground at her side, she enjoyed a moment of respite as the delicate scent of a flower wafted pleasantly about her nostrils. The flower she had saved from careless, armoured feet storming out of the Landsmeet Chamber. A rose that was discarded as a fragile heart shattered. The gift of love she needed to return to its rightful owner.

Morrigan hoped that she would survive long enough to witness the reunion.

=.=

_Many thanks to** Shakespira **and** Piceron.**_


	6. Fergus

_BioWare…why was my favourite companion not in Awakenings?_

_**Warning: death of an animal.**_

Q.Q

Sitting on the chamber's over-sized bed, he glanced uneasily about the room which had once belonged to his parents. Most of the portraits of his murdered family had been destroyed by the usurper, and though new ones had been commissioned, he was thankful for the bare walls at this time. The bloodstains had been cleansed from the family wing, but the feeling of safety - of _home -_ had by no means returned.

Mournful silence loomed shadowy and insistent throughout the castle and grounds. No longer did exuberant laughter peel forth from joyous lips, echoing off the ancient walls. No more did boisterous conversations boom from the various rooms. Nowadays, everyone went about their business in dread of stirring up ghosts.

He was grateful for the support of the neighboring lands, especially Bann Alfstanna of the Waking Seas' promise of allegiance. With their aid he was able to rebuild over some of the destruction that Howe's soldiers had wreaked so savagely. But now, ever since his sister's departure for Amaranthine, he felt truly alone. For the first time in his life, he was without family.

.

After the Archdemon's death, marking an end to the Blight, he'd been reunited with his sister and her mabari Sam. When the celebrations were over, the grateful new King offered to help in the restoration of their stewardship of Highever. Once the castle was returned to them, his sister had traveled to the Waking Seas to request their assistance. Sam had sickened, becoming easily tired, and was left behind to recuperate.

In her absence, the warhound had become…_unstable_, almost _feral_. The dog's normally huge appetite slowly waned, and the once magnificent animal began to diminish. The Kennel Master had sent somber daily reports concerning the deteriorating condition of the mabari before finally requesting permission for a healer. After cautiously inspecting the ailing dog, the healer himself was mystified. Perhaps it was old age, or exhaustion from the constant stress of battle throughout the Blight.

Soon after the healer's inspection, the stable hands began to whisper tales of Sam and demonic possession. When he caught wind of these rumours, he decided to visit the kennels himself. He knew of Sam's level of devotion; strangers couldn't possibly understand the connection between the mabari and his sister. Surely Sam was simply lonely, perhaps pining away due to the separation. Upon arrival at Sam's pen, however, he had been immediately shocked, and then horrified at the sight. The bleary-eyed creature gnawing at its own skin, and tearing out clumps of its own fur was _not_ his sister's cherished companion.

Images of a younger Sam swamped his mind: an awkward pup teetering and stumbling after his playful mistress, tiny tongue lolling in uncoordinated joy; the young dog learning how to defend his young Lady, growling and snapping at the squires in her defense; a hound in his prime cavorting at his Lady's side as she traipsed off to the woods, excitedly expectant of a new adventure. Easily bored, highly intelligent, and incredibly manipulative, Sam was the personification of the lively Lady of Highever.

He recalled Nan's shrieks as she cursed the ravenous thief; Ser Gilmore's respectful wariness during training sessions; the fearful sons of hopeful nobles, dreading the idea of spending their wedding night with the horrific guardian in tow. But no more, for that Sam was gone. The beast in the pen was slowly being transformed by the darkspawn taint.

His sister revealed little about the Order of the Grey Wardens to him, only to say they were able to battle the darkspawn without succumbing to the malignant blood. The Grey Wardens were somehow connected to the taint, sensing it in others. If so, how did she not catch _this_? Did she knowingly choose to ignore the signs? She had lost so much already. Was the thought of losing her best friend, her dearest companion, more than she could bear?

He knew the curse of the taint, having witnessed his comrades keel over, thrashing and moaning in agony, after being wounded by the darkspawn in battle. The hedge-witch responsible for saving him had explained the horrifying sight. It was the poison within the blood. He was _very_ fortunate to escape such a painful fate. And now, the signs of the blighted ones were in his sister's most cherished gift from their dead parents._  
_

He had entered the pen slowly, crouching while cooing softly. One hand outstretched in supplication, he had prayed his scent would be remembered. Sam, or what was left of the warhound, had whipped his head around in challenge, bloody lips curled back to reveal blackened, deadly fangs dripping with foul drool. A deep warning growl had resonated from within the broad chest. _Approach if you dare_.

"Your Grace," a voice had quietly spoken from behind. "Take this."

Turning his head to look up at the Kennel Master, he saw the glint of the dagger held out towards him. His free hand began to shake when he reached over to accept the blade. The man simply nodded and stepped back, then re-latched the gate to the pen. After closing his eyes and whispering a prayer to Andraste, he had gathered up his courage knowing what had to be done. In his sister's absence, it was _his_ duty.

After curling his arm around Sam's shoulders, he had pushed the massive head against his chest, trying to calm the distressed beast. Softly speaking into one of the warhound's tattered ears, he had raised the dagger, allowing it to hover over the animal's battle-scarred ribcage for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he had steadied himself before plunging the dagger deep into the dog's heart with all the strength he could muster. The body in his arms had shuddered, and the mabari had cried out sharply, followed by an agonized whine. Sam's hind legs had kicked out, paws scrabbling against the hard-packed earth. Liquid flowed from the back of the warhound, pooling in the dust and straw strewn about the pen. And then, with a final hiccuping groan, the once great mabari lay still.

Gently swaying, he had continued to hold onto Sam's head, leaving the dagger where it was. Stricken, he watched the blood seep and drip about its hilt. _He had just killed a Hero_. After lowering the limp head to the ground, and blindly exiting the pen, he had ordered the Kennel Master to wrap and prepare the mabari's body for a pyre. The taint had to be destroyed _immediately_.

A few days after Sam's death, his sister had finally returned with her reinforcements. He did not meet her at the gates, unable to greet her with his grim news. Instead, she sought him out. One look at her face told him everything. _She already knew_. She had trusted him to do what she could not; trusted him to be her big brother and fulfill the grim duty on her behalf. Gratitude fought with sorrow in her dry eyes when she held his sobbing form.

The next day was spent spreading Sam's ashes around the woods outside the castle. Only then did she ready herself to heed the King's call for her presence in Amaranthine. He had watched her prepare to leave, sorrowfully noting the change in her. The girl who had grown up laughing, playing, cajoling, challenging, and teasing was gone. In her place walked a battle-hardened soldier; a seasoned killer on the hunt for new recruits. His heart broke at the sight.

.

Several weeks had passed, and he had not heard from her. She didn't write, nor visit. He was beginning to realize how great the gulf was between them. As the last Cousland, and currently the only Teyrn, much of his time was spent supporting the new King and helping to rebuild Ferelden.

Her life now belonged to the Grey Wardens, and she seemed to have developed a deep-seated disgust for politics. Her once ferocious love for her country had died somewhere during the Blight. She was a Hero with nothing left to give.

Fergus' little sister, Lady Cousland, was no more.

Q.Q

_**Many thanks to all who read, fave, subscribe, and most especially, to the reviewers - Shakespira, Piceron, Reyavie, ArtemysFayr and Nightsfury.**_


	7. Cullen

_BioWare created..._

O.O

Striving to remain as motionless as possible, he slowly flexed his upper arm muscles to relieve an itch brought on by the woolen padding. The heavy armour was a hindrance to his comfort, most especially the unyielding helm, but the trainers had stressed the importance of remaining statuesque. Any sudden movement could startle the more anxious members of their flock. The nervous ones worried him the most.

Long years of meditative study helped to reduce the irritation, but his flesh had already shown a repugnant will of its own; a weakness he had struggled with even _before _the 'incident'_._ Though several months past, the evil yet lingered. He could still feel the insidious touch of temptation stroking his embattled body, opposing his fevered resolve.

Knight-Commander Greagoir had 'requested' that he wear a helm due to the trepidation his fierce countenance created when amongst newer apprentices. Complaints were made concerning a Templar's face seething with sudden, venomous hatred and eyes glittering with unholy wrath. Greagoir had been sympathetic, noting such things as food and drink deprivation, survival guilt and lyrium withdrawal.

_Lyrium withdrawal_? By the Sacred Flame, what did _that_ mean? He was taught the lyrium made him stronger, more resistant to the sacrilegious power of their charges. Did not the power of Andraste and the Maker flow through them by way of the lyrium? Without it, they were just Warriors in heavy armour and purple waist robes!

Nevertheless, he complied with the gentle command. The years of instilled obedience could not be altered now, not with so much chaos in abundance all around him. He wore the cumbersome helm dutifully, refusing to be the cause of another 'incident'.

The apprehension of the new detainees…no, not detainees…_Wards of the Chantry_, disturbed him greatly. Their anxiety led to bursts of uncontrolled energy. Churning emotions created dangerous ruptures in an already unstable Veil. He dreaded the menacing ignorance of the newest ones and prayed fervently that their teachers could contain the unearthly powers.

And now he heard that the Grand Cleric supported the new King's request for a more lenient watch of Kinloch Hold! Was the sacrifice of her mightiest servants so easy to absolve? Were Andraste alive today, surely _She_ would have burst into Righteous Flames at the idea!

Why was he the only one to remember the peril? Why had he been spared the death that sprang silently, stealthily from the stone floors? How had he been overlooked by the demonic fangs and burning claws which destroyed his brethren? He alone remained to speak of their ability to slide into your mind and compel you to perform at their command.

Did they not understand death by abomination? Why would the Grey Wardens, the most secretive and aloof of all the Orders, interfere? Was it the influence of Senior Enchanter Wynne? It would seem that even Greagoir had forgotten to honour the fallen Knights. What was _happening_ to the faithful of Ferelden?

Alas, the years of prayers had not been enough to save him from demonic influence. The strength bestowed upon him in the name of The Maker and Andraste had abandoned him while imprisoned, leaving him to fight against himself. He had not been deemed worthy of Sacred Might. There was _one_ person left who might understand, though.

He closed his eyes as he recalled the noble Warden. He remembered her concern for him and his fallen comrades. Even as she spoke of compassion, she spoke with a voice of steel tempered by untold fires.

He wasn't able to do it on his own, but with her support he _could_ try to right the wrongs and protect the innocent. Be what he'd struggled to be in the darkest moments of his life.

Ser Cullen, Knight-Vigilant of Divine Will.

O.O

_**Thank you Shakespira, ArtemysFayr and Piceron! Your reviews are greatly appreciated! **_


	8. Old God

_BioWare created...  
_

_I read so many contradiction where the dragons were concerned (i.e. male dragons are drakes and don't have wings, etc.), that in the end, I decided to insert my own ideas concerning their gender/sex/history. Sorry for any offense.  
_

O.O

As she lay resting in a self-imposed stupor, essences from the latest victims flowed through ancient scales to tingle against her skin. The combined spirits flickered across her vast body in enthralling knowledge and power. She resisted the urge to grieve for Beauty, silencing the mournful song before it started.

This was not the first time her slumber had been disturbed in such a manner.

The first deaths, those of Silence and his murderer, had been baffling but profitable. Initially confusing, the memories were entwined; too difficult to decipher. Two souls had met in battle, becoming one as they fell. The oldest of them fought the ignominy of oblivion by finding refuge in his own kind with the insignificant one still attached. The siblings were showered in the residual energy and made stronger for it. Disturbed by the transformation of the most powerful one of them, she pondered on the source of Silence's madness. Intriguing as they were, the memories of his killer had her wondering how such an inconsequential little creature came to thwart a _god_. The answers lay in a confusing miasma of mental images, violently repulsive as they were.

Along with the rest of her siblings, she'd cried out in sorrow at the loss of their eldest brother, singing the Song of the Ancients.

Thoughtless, impulsive Chaos had succumbed to the insanity next. His battle lasted almost a century according to his ravager. The ensuing influx of power and memory were less discomfiting this time. Surfacers were beginning to understand the immensity of the gods, and began to work together, plotting future rebellions against further revivals. She was somewhat amused in their new-found belief that _they_ had the ability to destroy Old Souls. _Witless creatures!_

Once again they sang, mourning the lost Chaos.

As her opposite, Fire had been her favourite. He'd appeared to be indestructible, a veritable force of energy too powerful to falter or diminish. Nevertheless, even the blazing Fire was extinguished. She welcomed the collective remembrance of this conflict. Shortly lived, it was the most illuminating to her. The Deep Roads were being overwhelmed by pestilence, as the surface overflowed with those seeking the forgiveness of the Master. Temples built for her sister and brothers had been abandoned, slowly becoming one with the sand and dust. Old Gods were now beings of myth and debate.

They sang their song of sorrow for the fallen Fire.

Chains, Lord of Slavery, tried to remain distant from the lustful worshipers of magic, sensing potential destruction of the gods through human greed. His song for Fire never faltered though, even when learning of the dark children's search. The cursed ones heard him, and Chains was transformed with but a touch. Upon receiving the mingled energy of Chains with the deadly elf, she learned of the promise of alliance against her kind. She now understood the advantage of silence.

Only two of them sang for Chains.

Unsurprisingly, the narcissistic Beauty gave way after Chains. The memories of the celebrations that once lasted for days in his honour had consumed him, filling him with a melancholic need for adulation. His new followers may not have had the intelligence to acknowledge his splendor, but they honoured him as their God - which had been all he needed. With the absorption of the spirit of Beauty and his nemesis, she felt a small tremor of surprise course through her. Beauty had been awoken by a dark one who knew their secrets and channeled their powers! How could this be? Only the Magisters of Ages past knew of these things. Another revelation engulfed her moments later. A ritual had been devised to take the soul of Beauty by none other than the she-demon and her witchling! The Master _himself_ must be asleep for such things to pass!

She stirred momentarily before remembering the need to remain still. The dark ones would soon begin a new search, and only two of the siblings remained. Her sister, Mystery, had discovered the wisdom of silence as well.

No song spilt forth for the demise of Beauty.

Mystery was the wary one, guarded and self-protective. It was only a matter of time before one of them was found. The dark children were frightened, and called out for protection with haunting urgency. She would wait till Mystery finally yielded to the darkspawn wails, then wait once more for her sister to fall.

Once the powers of _all_ her siblings had been absorbed, she would finally waken from her dreams, demolish the stones that entombed her, and soar once more across the skies. She would extend her shadow throughout the land, and claim her rightful place in her new domain.

The Tevinter Magisters had given the Old Gods new names - Dumat, Zazikel, Toth, Andoral, Urthemiel, Razikale, Lusacan - as their original names were secrets to be kept from all but the Master. She was indifferent to what the surface creatures called her.

She preferred to be known by her element: Lusacan the Dark, Goddess of the Night.

O.O

_Thanks to__** ChampionTheWonderSnail, Shakespira, mutive, ArtemysFayr, interesting2125 and Piceron…**__your words were very, very appreciated…_


	9. Zevran

_BioWare created…_

O.o

He lifted himself onto the lowest branch of the tree, carefully aligning his movements with its sway. Years of stealth training enabled his body to reflexively respond to the environment, needing little conscious direction on his part. A hooded dark cloak made fading into shadows easy; the tricky part would be passing through the heavily guarded doorway to reach his destination. After all the careful planning and time it took to travel here, he was not going to allow himself to fail. With his target just a short distance away, the hunt was almost over.

The weather was perfect for his plans. Snarling winds shook everything about, creating flickering shadows and unsettling noises in all directions. He smiled grimly at the thought of the tempest as _his_ servant tonight; distracting the skittish prey, the stormy weather allowed him to climb further up the tree without notice. All the guards on the balcony before him could feel the eyes of death staring upon them, and snapped at each other while they desperately searched for the insidious stalker. He settled on the branch overlooking the dimly lit house to await the arrival of his victim.

With great self-discipline, he resisted the urge to check his weapons, for the lightning would potentially expose his hiding spot to the darting eyes below him through the glint of metal. The poison on the blades would likely be washed away by the rain, as well. Better they remain under the cover of his cloak, and within his boots. The bowstring was well-waxed, needing no further maintenance; but the feathered arrows, on the other hand, were useless when wet. He knew the winds would work against his archery skills, and had to plot anew concerning the quick and quiet demise of the six well-armed guards below him.

Carefully studying their movements, he almost chuckled at their discomfort. Money could buy many things, but few possessions were worthy of standing in a downpour awaiting certain death. Being a mercenary was fitting to those with little else to live for, whereas an assassin appreciated all that life could offer, no matter the surroundings. All he could do was pray that the Maker favour him tonight.

A faint gleam of light pierced the gloom from beneath the door of the balcony. His target had arrived! He began to visualize the events about to unfold within the next few minutes, cuing his body to instinctively carry out his commands before the action even started.

The largest one, clumsiest by far, would be the first to go. That one's maul would do the greatest damage, and impair the timing of the sneak attack. Two guards at the doorway could wait till last. They were obviously the most uncomfortable, blinking rapidly as the stinging rain pummeled their eyes. The three standing near the corners of the balcony posed the greatest danger. Their deaths would require his utmost focus, and _all_ his silent skills.

For years he had lived under the thumb of the ruthless Masters of his Order. Years of fighting against the burning, churning rage and hate hidden deep within his heart and soul. Memories of being belittled, never quite fitting in with the upper echelon; deemed less worthy than they because of the supposed mistake of his birth. More their mistake than _his_, after tonight - he planned on giving their order a _new_ Master.

Taking a deep breath, he leapt off the swaying branch onto the balcony beneath him. With a hand on one of the poisoned daggers strategically placed upon his body, he softly landed behind the largest guard.

He loved this part. The uncertainty of life and death. The rush of blood thundering through his body, and ringing in his ears. The smell of leather and steel mixed with battle-fury and fear.

Zevran Arainai would become the Master of the Crows tonight, or die trying.

O.o

**_Many thanks to the thoughtful reviewers of this grim piece: interesting2125, Witchy Bee, ChampionTheWonderSnail, Shakespira, Nightsfury, mutive and Piceron._**


	10. Isolde

_BioWare's…_

-.-

She hummed lightly under her breath while inspecting the array of herbs, potions, and elixirs filling the small cabinet strategically placed in the rear of her tall wardrobe. Vigilance had been stressed when she studied the exacting craft of alchemy in her youth; training she'd never forgotten. The Antivans may be the rather boastful experts in their knowledge and use of this fairly delicate art-form, but Orlesians had mastered subtlety long, long ago.

A wistful smile graced her lips as she thought of Orlais. Many of the uncultured and poorly educated did not recognize the importance of Orlais to all of Thedas. The great general, later known as the first Orlesian Emperor Kordillus Drakon I, was responsible for changing the Cult of Andraste into the Chantry of Andraste, which guided all of their lives to this day. Unsurprisingly, Ferelden did not honour such an achievement - most likely due to their inbred hatred of foreigners. She shook her head slightly to clear her mind, and focused her attention once again to the items at hand.

Elfroot in small doses could be used for cleansing. Deathroot in small doses induced mild hallucinations. Mushrooms varied in their effect according to the age and size of the consumer, as well as the choice of mushroom. There were added effects when including distillation agents, concentrator agents, and corrupter agents. The challenge of creating the perfect mixture never ceased to exhilarate her.

Ferelden was so _cold_. It seemed forever since she had visited the warmth of Val Royeaux. How she missed the beautiful architecture, the perfumed gardens overflowing with a myriad of bright flowers in constant bloom, and most especially the _intrigue_. Orlesians lived and _breathed_ culture and intrigue, which were only truly appreciated when mingling with the Empress and her court. The rich fabrics and colours of clothing were also a blessing in Orlais. By contrast, even the former Queen of Ferelden seemed nothing more than a colorblind commoner dressed in silk.

The dawn's chorus of chirping birds brought her attention back to the present. She glanced over her shoulder to check on the amount of light seeping through the bedchamber window. There was not much time left for the preparation of her concoction. The morning tea she demanded on a daily basis would arrive soon. With swift and well practiced motions, she minced the herbs with the small dagger she kept hidden in the cabinet drawer. The expertise of her actions made her smile, being rather _practiced_ at what she did.

A hint of mushroom with a dash of distillation agent for stamina, a touch of mixed herbs for euphoria, _et voila_; her signature potion - her masterpiece - that enabled the constant state of _amour_ in her man. She never tired of the satisfaction of a job well done when watching its effect on him.

The gentle rap on the door startled her, and she quickly brushed the mixture into a flask. With brisk movements, she returned the herbs and leftover mushroom into their corked containers, and replaced the dagger to its drawer. She realigned the wardrobe's contents to conceal the cabinet, and closed its doors quietly.

A quick glance towards the bed assured her that he was still soundly sleeping. Sighing in relief, she quietly made her way to the chamber door to accept the tray prepared for her. This ritual was monotonous at times, but she often found comfort in the routine - something that never changed.

As a teenager she'd had a chance meeting with him, and learned of his affluence; his power reached far beyond what her own family was capable of attaining. The first time she had placed a potion in his drink, it was to ensure that he only had eyes for her. Many years later, his adoration guaranteed her a secure place in his society. She would _not_ be looked down upon by the heathen barbarians he called brethren, not while she stood at his side.

Isolde Guerrin quietly tapped the contents of the flask into her husband's favorite tea, stirring it vigorously. A few moments later, she gently brushed her fingers across Eamon's cheek to waken him. He did enjoy his tea first thing in the morning, and always seemed touched by the sight of her attempting to bring some sort of comfort to his day. She smiled when his hands grasped the mug, lifting it to his lips.

He would not discard _her _as easily as he would have others discard _their_ wives.

-.-

_**Thank you Shakespira, ChampionTheWonderSnail, ArtemysFayr, Piceron, kwintessa and Reyavie..**__.your words are inspirational..._


	11. Gatekeeper

_BioWare owns…_

O.o

He scanned the road ahead, keen eyes searching for any signs of potential trouble for his Clan. They had been on the run for months, unprepared..._fearful_...for the first time in their lives. The Shadow Rogues scouted the terrain at dusk, and usually returned with whitened faces, clenched jaws, and uneasy eyes. Danger lurked everywhere these days.

At first it had been the terrifying presence of the corrupted ones. The sheer size of the dark army had been chilling to observe, and they'd been left no choice but to flee. Now though, _everything_ around the tense group was considered perilous. Fereldan citizens were wary and self-protective during these dark times, bearing weapons to discourage any possible threat from all strangers. The Clan found little welcome throughout their journey.

They found safety in abandoned farmhouses along the way, and tried to learn what they could from the memorabilia left behind. Childlike curiosity conflicted with frustration in their ignorance of Ferelden. They would need to understand the ways of this land, and its people, to fit in.

The sky became their map once their vision had improved. Their bodies had become weaker, tiring far too easily. With most of their senses dimmed, a well-honed instinct for survival was all that kept them moving. Since the hot sun adversely affected their newly-bared skin, most travel was done at night. They found the openness of the terrain to be unnerving, with little brush or woods to offer shelter.

From time to time they came across small inhabited settlements, but once the Clan was deemed foreign by the locals, they were treated with a wariness that didn't tolerate fellowship. He knew their speech patterns gave them away as outsiders, isolated as they had been from the general population. His leader chose to avoid any travellers they crossed paths with, attempting to keep their own social structure intact. Countless generations of separation made most of them cautious of new encounters.

Searching for food brought new problems to light. They had to make adjustments, and learn to hunt anew. The Shadow Rogues were the only ones able to bring down prey with any real success. This irritated the leader, whose clout began to wane in the eyes of many followers. There was barely concealed apprehension in the men as they contemplated their future. No longer was sheer size, and brute strength, a determination of superiority.

He was the only one unperturbed by the underlying tension. His role as guardian and protector of the Clan remained integral, no matter _who_ was in command. It was his duty to remain focused on keeping as many of them alive as possible, at least long enough for them to find a new home. They were on the trail of the one who had set them free, in hopes that _she_ could help them through their shaky transition.

They had been so powerful in their previous life that it was a daily struggle to _fit_ into their new forms. Nowadays they felt as weak and defenseless as new-born cubs. Before the final confrontation with Zathrian, they hadn't concerned themselves with the search for food or shelter. In the Brecilian Forest, they had moved silently through the woodland as the Masters of their domain, enforcing dominance through tooth and claw.

The Warden had freed them from their curse, and now they needed her once more. The guidance of the Lady of the Forest was gone; they needed a new source of inspiration.

Having deemed the path clear of danger, he nodded to his leader, Swiftrunner, giving the signal for them to proceed. Soon they would find the Warden, and allow her to become their new Lady. Even his alpha saw the need for her leadership in this unknown world.

Gatekeeper smiled at the thought.

Strong men _always_ need a strong woman to look up to.

O.o

_**Thanks again to all you wonderful reviewers…Witchy Bee, Reyavie, interesting2125, Shakespira, ChampionTheWonderSnail, Piceron, Drakeling and mutive**__…you are all so very, very kind in your support! :D_


	12. Blood Mage

_Bioware owns… _

_My thanks to Piceron for this 'enchanting' thought…_

_.  
_

O.O

.

"_The people you killed didn't want to die either."_

She'd been given little choice in the matter. The mages were trapped within a cold, despotic, and inescapable prison with no one but Chantry panderers to turn to. Their only hope for early release came at a price, but one they were _all_ willing to pay. It was better to die fighting for her belief than face a lifetime cringing in fear of the malevolent sentinels.

The discontented mages weren't Tevinter Magisters out to prove their dominance to the world. Nay, they simply believed themselves worthy of freedom.

"_But why turn to forbidden magic?"_

They lived in constant fear of death or forced tranquility. It was the only way left for them to take matters into their own hands.

She had been approached in secret, of course. Everything was done in the shadows of Kinloch Hold. Notes in tomes and covert nods were passed back and forth under the baleful watch of the Templars. Training had been offered to those with the strongest will. A stealthy rebellion was being planned that whispered of liberation.

Certain fraternities were befriended, while others were overlooked for fear of betrayal. The power-hungry Lucrosians were rather easy to convince. A few Isolationists could be trusted with the keeping of secrets. Loyalists and Aequitarians, however, were avoided. Chantry lovers and pious peacekeepers had no place in their plans.

Uldred had explained everything to them in great detail. Summoning and blood magic training had taken time to perfect, but they were desperate in their defiance. All they could do was hope that the summoned ones were compliant. The fight for emancipation would begin with the return of the mages from Ostagar.

Unconditional support from the Hero of River Dane was guaranteed. No longer would the Chantry control them.

"_You know we cannot allow blood mages to live_."

As a Spirit Healer, she was trained in the School of Creation. The blood magic was merely a means to an end. Andraste _herself_ was the cause of great bloodshed in the pursuit of liberty. She hoped the spirits she met with in the Fade would understand; she'd be far more useful if she were free.

Unfortunately, all did not go as planned. The Isolationist, Niall, had somehow managed to escape from Uldred, and found the Litany of Adralla. Uldred became _mad_ with rage. He'd called upon the demons to slaughter the Templars and mages alike. Andraste's Warriors had fallen swiftly, except for the ones enthralled – the desire demons _liked_ to play with their food. The mages were caught off-guard, defenseless against the blood magic. A few had barricaded themselves, but Uldred was too powerful to escape from for long.

It wasn't supposed to have ended the way it did. The mages and Templars were to be controlled, held as hostages perhaps, not spraying the walls and floors with their blood. The Pride Demon Uldred consorted with had overcome the Senior Enchanter, demanding the death of _all_ opponents.

By the time she had encountered the Warden, she could think only of escape.

"_How will you get out? With blood magic?"_

The spirit she had called upon was kinder and gentler than the ones her cohorts partnered with. He had explained the need for blood magic to further their cause, even volunteering to ease the part of her mind that was naturally horrified at the thought. She had trusted the spirit enough to comply.

Oddly, she could not remember all the events of the rebellion. Her mind was not completely hers anymore. One of the side effects of blood magic, she assumed. It was dangerous to steal the life-force of someone else; you lost a little of your own every time you did so.

Penance was her only recourse; prayer her salvation.

"_I will spare you. Do not make me regret this decision."_

She _did_ remember the Warden allowing her to flee, just didn't remember _how_ she had escaped. Waking up one morning in a wet robe, lying in a small cave beside a blazing fire, she realized that the spirit had taken over for her again.

Planning to find the nearest Chantry for her absolution, she became befuddled and easily lost in the outside world. She couldn't trust her senses in the wilderness. The spirit she communed with was becoming more and more insistent in his wish to guide her.

Somehow it seemed fitting that, having thanked the Warden for _her_ mercy, the spirit she called friend was willing to show mercy as well. The screams haunted her every waking moment, only finding relief when surrendering to the spirit. She prayed that the Maker would find it in His heart to forgive her for her sins.

In the buried recesses of her mind, the Pride Demon smiled. _Freedom always came at great cost._

O.O

_This is the Blood Mage you choose to release or kill in The Broken Circle quest..._

_Thank you to: __**mutive, Shakespira, Eva Galana, Nightsfury, Piceron, ArtemysFayr, ChampionTheWonderSnail, Drakeling, Enaid Aderyn and harpychick.**_


	13. Nathaniel

_BioWare owns…Noble Observations…_

^.^

_Brrruuppp._

There was no winning a battle of wits with Oghren. The attempt brought forth a small but overpowering cloud of alcohol fumes, and bile, straight into one's face. Watering eyes, burning nostrils, and a churning stomach were enough to stop the most determined challenger from attempting further debate. It was healthier to let the dwarf have his say. A shame that a great warrior was reduced to winning conflicts in such a manner, but a well-aimed discharge of gas was a potent deterrent. No thoughts were to be wasted on the flatulence.

_Snort_.

Not only did the female dwarf have a more pleasing appearance, she was _much_ easier on the nose. Strangely enough, for a skilled rogue and deadly combatant, she _did_ tend to hop and skip with child-like glee rather often. How could a self-proclaimed walking, talking corpse bounce about so joyfully and so _incessantly_? Curious.

Sigrun's innocence of surface life was endearing, yet she was far too optimistic to be a member of the Legion of the Dead. Perhaps when declared dead, dwarves were allowed to be adorable. The only time her high spirits became truly necessary was when they crossed through fields of wheat or tall grasslands. She couldn't be seen or heard otherwise. Except when pilfering, being diminutive was definitely a _shortcoming_ on the surface.

_Snicker._

The mage was amusing in small doses. Or rather, silence became precious when in his company. Brash and suggestive to most he met, he appeared to lack any redeeming social skills outside of his allegedly faultless abilities within closets, storerooms and bedchambers. It was rather unfortunate that the Circle Tower didn't actively pursue his charismatic presence any longer. Most likely they were concerned about potential population explosions. A mob of miniature Anders' was rather frightening, if one gave it much thought.

The blessing of having him as a Warden was, of course, due to his formidable magical might. Fire and lightning at one's fingertips removed any need for good manners. And then again, there was the cat. Better not to think about any suggestion within _that_ name.

_Humph._

Were there anyone who could slay with a tree, it would most definitely be Velanna. Certainly a horrifying experience for the victim, but one that delighted her to no end. The elf was truly a mystery to all the companions. Her physical form was _very_ pleasing to the eye, with her delicate facial features, dazzling eyes and rather hypnotizing sway; an exotic kind of flower that few were given the gift of observing. Unfortunately, _this_ flower was very poisonous to the touch. Barbed words and disdainful glares were her usual responses when approached.

Only those with great patience were able to learn of the intelligence and thought behind the prickly exterior. It seemed a shame that even her _own_ kind were terrified of her. It was probably for the best that she wasn't the Keeper of _her_ clan.

_Hmmm?_

The real puzzle was the spirit of Justice. The decaying body was easy to ignore for a while. After a few weeks, unfortunately, the smell was becoming somewhat unbearable. At least if Justice became uncouth enough to deliberately pass gas, no one would notice. It didn't bear thinking about what would happen if he sneezed, though.

In an act of great kindness, the warrior had taken to wearing a full helm. It didn't help with the stench, but it gave his voice an eerie quality that went well with his 'spiritual' commentary. One would think a Fade spirit overtaking a long dead body to be rather grisly, but not so with Justice. In fact, his speeches usually hinted at right and wrong, penance, injustice, oppression, atonement, and responsibility.

Perhaps at times he seemed just a _tad_ self-righteous. In his defense, the Spirit of Justice had never been human before. It was a learning experience for them all. Lessons well learned downwind.

Better yet, from a distance.

_Chuckle._

Lastly there was the Commander of the Grey.

Part of his training as a squire was to interpret the unspoken dialogue of his superiors; body language.

There was a lot of dialogue going on in _her_ body. Outwardly she projected enough kindness, benevolence, and attentiveness to garner respect and devotion from all and sundry, but beneath the veneer was a stormy mass of emotions awaiting eruption. It was lucky for everyone in the vicinity that there were so many darkspawn nearby - and that she was so easily amused by an Oghren Belch.

Nathaniel shook his head in dismay. How a group of battle-hardened fighters could be reduced to snickering fools due to one long, loud burp confounded him. Perhaps Thomas had the right idea all along. Ingesting dwarven ale made you forget.

Next time, he would ask for a mug.

^.^

_Yup, rather glib observations from Nathaniel, but heck…I just couldn't make him bleaker than he already is!_

_Many thanks to: __**Shakespira, mutive, Enaid Aderyn, Piceron, ArtemysFayr, Witchy Bee, ChampionTheWonderSnail, interesting2125 and Reyavie!**__ :D _


	14. Filda

_BioWare created_…

Q.Q

Creeping through the ancient halls, she could hear the Ancestors moan in ages-old sorrow. The road markers stood as reminders of the losses over the centuries_._

_'The darkest path is filled with sorrows, yet I will stand the test.'_

_'Stand forever. Guard the path. Darkness grows, yet we hold.'_

The road past Aeducan Thaig was blocked, leaving her little choice but to clamber over broken pillars, fallen stone, and ceiling-high piles of rubble as she searched for the path to Caridin's Cross.

The tunnels were perplexing, dug with no apparent goal in mind. She remembered that these were excavated by the darkspawn, whose only purpose was to demolish, _not_ create. She avoided the tunnel with the corpses strewn about its entrance. Dark shadows crept everywhere, barely held back by the glowing lava. Permeating the air, the smell from the decaying remains was nauseating. Tiptoeing around the rancid bodies, the stench soon became unbearable in the heat emanating off the streams of lava flowing on each side of the road.

Travelling further into the winding tunnel, she realized that the bodies had less flesh and more bone as she went on. Gingerly inspecting a corpse, she spotted tiny slashes on the bones. Razor-sharp teeth from ravenous carnivores had feasted upon these rotting carcasses. _Tezpadam - _more commonly known as deepstalkers_. _She nervously surveyed the ground around her. Tezpadam were notorious for burrowing into the layers of dust and broken stone beneath one's feet. Listening carefully to the call of the Stone, she heard no warning of immediate danger, so continued on.

She stared in surprise, and not a little dismay, at the small rays of light radiating from the ceilings and walls. The darkspawn had been careless in their digging. They had caused the Stone to crack and fall, showing no concept of design, only destruction. Thankfully the darkspawn were absent from this area of the Deep Roads; she had heard of what happened to women captured by them. At the moment, she was more concerned about the amount of webbing on the ceilings, as well as the teeth marks on the corpses.

All dwarves know the tales of the giant spiders. The tiny spiders of long ago had become infused with the lyrium over time, eventually evolving into monsters of horrendous size. Cringing at the thought of meeting one, she hoped they couldn't smell nor hear her. For far too long she'd planned this journey, and was determined that nothing would stop her.

The tunnels were confusing, and she found herself backtracking over and over again. She observed the seemingly deserted darkspawn campsites with trepidation, but refused to give into fear. Intense relief washed over her at the sight of another set of dwarven road markers. One of them, she noted with distaste, was covered in crude words concerning the late Lord Harrowmont, but the other was a sign that she was on the right path.

'_Our past is wrought with lost roads, mines, thaigs, and homes, consumed by the horrors of an endless war_.'

Almost there! Ortan Thaig was her destination.

Once past the great doors of Ortan Thaig, she felt a chill run through her upon seeing the darkness looming over the road ahead. The Ancestors' moans seemed more ominous here. The sight of the body of the Ogre surrounded by giant dead spiders made her gasp in surprise. They were so _huge_ - and she so _small_. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself forward…_she would prevail._

A twisting tunnel, filled with bodies of darkspawn amongst the corpses of enormous spiders, opened up into a cave of horror. Another dead Ogre and more dead spiders…_by the Stone_…it seemed to have been a _colossal_ battle! _How many giant spiders and Ogres did these tunnels hold_? The fear began eating away at her resolve.

Her husband had died, many years past, attempting to clear a path to the lost Thaigs. Five years ago, her son disappeared into the darkness as well. She _had_ to push on, _had_ to keep the terror at bay long enough to find him.

Then she came upon the buildings. Spider webs were numerous, but empty. She gave another sigh of relief. Trembling, she snuck past more lifeless spiders, stubbornly refusing to look up at the ceiling. As she passed the entrance of a small cavern on her way to a bridge, she stopped. Soft moans could be heard echoing off the walls. Hope sparked within her. Pulse racing and heart swelling, she walked slowly through the entry on shaky legs. _After all these years_.

A few weeks ago, the Warden had interrupted her prayer - the prayer she had offered every day for five long years.

_"Ancestors, guard my son, for he is lost in darkness. Mothers, keep him safe, for you know what it is to mourn_."

The Warden had recently returned from the Deep Roads with grim news about her son. She'd offered a gift to the Warden, even though she _knew_ that more of an effort could have been spared to bring him back. The Warden was not a mother. Only a mother understood the aching sorrow that ate at the soul after losing a child.

And then she saw him! He was hunched over, limbs contorted in obvious pain. _Ruck!_ She began to run, arms stretched wide.

Filda, widow of Teruck, mother of Ruck, laughed giddily at the sight of his unkempt hair and shaggy beard. Thank goodness she was here to take care of him, poor dear! She critically noted the gaunt eyes and hollow cheekbones - nothing a storm of stews and roasts wouldn't fix, of course! He was still a growing boy, after all!

Too late she saw the grinning mouth, and blackened, pointed teeth.

Q.Q

_Whew! Took me days to research the dreary creepiness of the Deep Roads!_

_Many thanks to readers and reviewers: __**mutive, Shakespira, Enaid Aderyn, ChampionTheWonderSnail, mousestalker, Piceron, Reyavie, Nightsfury, KayraCousland and Abydos Jackson**__ [hugs]…I'm honoured by each and every one of you for the time you took to share your thoughts! :D_


	15. Genitivi & Leliana

_BioWare created…a MUCH better version in the 'Sacred Ashes' trailer… _

_I love the gritty, realistic character depiction by interesting2125 in the dark yet compelling: 'Dragon Age: Wars of the Wolf'…Be assured, my version does not resemble interesting2125's in any way! XD_

_A HUGE thank you to Shakespira for assistance due to my conversational insecurities!_

*.*

The old man's hands shook slightly as he carefully brushed the dusty rubble away from the icy walls. His excitement knew no bounds in the anticipation of revealing ancient stone carvings buried and forgotten over the centuries. Completely engrossed in his meditations on the mysteries of the temple, he did not hear _her_ creep up behind him.

"Brother Genitivi?" A tremulous, heavily accented voice called out to him. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Genitivi grimaced slightly before turning his head to face the woman. "No, child," he answered as calmly as possible. "Not with this."

He didn't have time for _her_ unhinged conversations today. Alas, it was just too much to hope for that she stay in the village below, as even the _Templars_ brought here to protect their discoveries had begun to avoid her. Those damnable rants were beginning to wear on _all_ their nerves; patience had become an almost unattainable virtue these days.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and he looked away, trying to erase the image of the plump flesh swelling over the neckline of the Chantry robe.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you avoiding me, Brother Genitivi?"

His eyes widened in barely controlled panic_. How to answer…how to answer_. He knew of her history. She had repeated the story enough times he'd briefly considered adding another book to his already burgeoning works on life in Thedas. Trained as a bard, eventually betrayed by her former Bard-Master-Lover, which included descriptive details of torture, followed by an escape to a Ferelden Chantry…he just didn't want to hear it _again_.

"Oh, no, _no_, child," he hastily replied, his mind suddenly blank.

"Good." A brilliant smile stretched across Leliana's glossy, pouty lips. "I am only looking for someone to talk to. All the Templars are busy searching for mad cultists in the village. I _told _them that they'd all been killed, but those Templars are so _fussy _about leaving 'no stone unturned and no leaf unchecked'. Such dedication is admirable, _yes_?"

"Ah," Genitivi replied, struggling to pay attention, still completely devoid of thought.

Leliana lowered herself to sit beside Genitivi, folding her legs carefully due to the snug fit of the Chantry robe. "I was just thinking of the trip to Haven when we searched for Andraste's Ashes," she murmured rather sadly.

"Ah," repeated the good Brother, returning to the task at hand.

The former Bard took in a deep breath.

Genitivi cringed.

"Can you believe that the Warden didn't take _me _with her when going to the mountaintop? _Me_! A Chantry Sister…well, lay Sister...but _still_! _How rude_! Yes, there _was_ a High Dragon, and then the endless attacks from crazy cultists which the mages and warriors dealt with quite adequately…" She shook her head in dainty disgust. "But I was the only true _believer_!"

After gasping for more air, Leliana continued. "She didn't take me _anywhere_! Oh, sorry…_yes_…there was that time she took me to _Dust Town_ in _Orzammar_." She sniffed delicately. "And _that _was just to give me a _rodent_!"

Thankfully she was momentarily silent while taking another deep breath.

Genitivi closed his eyes and sent up an unspoken prayer.

"Sten, Sam, Morrigan, Alistair, and even that drunken, smelly Oghren went _everywhere_ with her! _I_ had to stay in camp, hiding from the ogling of a 'lonely' dwarven merchant. Threaten to dismember a _very_ lusty killer elf. Listen to the never-ending groans of a cranky, bitter golem. Bite my tongue at an elderly woman's drivel over the manly beauty of Alistair 'the-almost-Templar-virgin', and _then_ try to ignore the 'Enchantment!' shout day after day after day, _for almost a year_!"

She inhaled deeply before sighing.

A wistful smile tugged at her lips. "Mind you, it _did_ save me from re-stocking my make-up supplies, _yes_? The sweat from the daily battles would have _ruined_ my applications, which I spent_ much_ time on _every_ day! Since my pack wasn't as large as the Warden's, I had very little room for such things. And even though my Assassin and Bard training didn't include killing little creatures for dinner, or singing for after-supper entertainment, my dishes _were_ far tastier than the Grey Warden Stew Alistair adored making."

A small pout formed on her already pouty lips. "My mother told me so many things about Ferelden before she died. She proudly described the beauty of the Ferelden nobility in _great_ detail: burnished, blazing redheads; radiant, shining auras of the blonds; lustrous midnight tresses; deep, rich chocolate braids gleaming in the sunlight _and_ the moonlight - and those were just the _men_! The glittering emerald-green eyes, those startling sapphire-blue eyes…" Eyes glazing over, her voice trailed off for a moment. "_Everyone_ has dreams of romancing such a beautiful people, _yes_?"

Creases appeared across her forehead. "I was _so_ disappointed when I discovered that the Warden was a Teyrn's daughter. _A sodding Teyrn's daughter_! Girls of such noble breeding _do not_ have straight, plain brown hair or plain brown eyes, and _especially _do not have that ruddy shade of skin…_everyone_ knows that noble women have _alabaster _skin, no matter _how_ exposed to the sun they are! The former Queen _looks_ nobler, and _she_ is the daughter of a_ farmer's _son!" She shook her head in disbelief, careful to not displace her braids as she gulped in more air.

"I assume the Warden was jealous that I was more beau…er..._noble_ in appearance." Leliana snorted ever so delicately. "When I asked her why I was being left at camp, she told me she had no use for a giggly Bard in battle. _Giggly_! Well, I _never_! I may have giggled as a child, because _all _children giggle, _yes_? But, as we age we learn to laugh, snicker, chuckle and chortle!"

The lay Sister cleared her throat. "I was a victim of _much_ terror and deceit in my past life. I don't remember giggling _once,_ after my escape to Lothering. Perhaps she was worried that Alistair would fall for me. She _was_ rather insecure, poor thing, the way she handed out all those gifts…"

Brother Genitivi swallowed. It was time for him to take a vacation, or he would slowly go mad, turn into a cultist himself, and throw her off the highest cliff. Maybe he should look for hidden dragon eggs. He'd heard stories about their ability to imbue extra strength when consumed.

_Would anybody miss her_?

*.*

^.^

_Thanks to all reviewers: __**Shakespira, mutive, Piceron, Ygrain33, interesting2125, ChampionTheWonderSnail, Abydos Jackson, HanFei, KayraCousland and Reyavie**__… _

…_holy smokes! I want to frame them all and hang them off the ceiling…I know, I know, I'm getting a puffy head! Don't worry, Kitty-Cat reminds me where the REAL talent lies in this family! :D_


	16. Anora

_BioWare owns…_

-.-

_Plink...plink...plink...plink….plink…._

Her hands clenched the book in a white-knuckled grasp. The rainfall didn't disturb her, but the incessant dripping from the crack in the ceiling did. Had she known of the shabby state of these chambers, repairs would have been ordered long ago. An oversight she hoped to correct one day. The monotonous sound of the water pooling on the floor was beginning to grate on her nerves, becoming a form of torture that put Rendon's methods to shame. At least _his_ victims met their end. _Her_ torture felt eternal.

The inability to ignore her pent up frustration bothered her enormously; paranoia and rage were always on her mind these days. Was it something in the blood? If so, she prayed her mother's blood would compensate. Though resembling her mother in body, she was her father's daughter in every other way. And _that_ was cause for worry.

Mother had been beautiful, gracious, and strong enough to withstand the harshness of southern Ferelden. She'd proven very capable of managing the teyrnir by herself. It could not have been easy, being married to a man who spend most of his days at the king's side rather than with family. Celia was an attentive mother, carefully preparing the young Lady for the role of queen. The importance of diplomacy, tact, and ability to command were instilled at the start.

Father had been her role model, though she saw little of him during her childhood. She knew many believed him boorish, with little appeal, but his will and determination were second to none. King Maric had titled her father, demonstrating his respect for the effort and sacrifice of the Mac Tir's. Her position was not a boon for services rendered, it was merely Maric's way of ensuring acceptance by the nobility.

_Plink...plink...plinkplink….plink…._

Anora discarded the book, clasping her hands together in an attempt to ignore the thunderous storm through memories.

She knew the history and politics of Ferelden. The indiscretions of the Houses, and the rebellions always simmering within the Bannorn. The lineage of Calenhad was tainted with dictators. As Queen, she'd learned to develop the backbone needed to soothe the fears, and waylay the ambitions of lesser nobles _without_ resorting to threats of bloodshed. Her father had explained the need to keep certain families in line, informing her of the measures he'd had to take to ensure loyalty to the throne. A few nobles still remembered the outcome of opposing the rightful rule of a Theirin.

Realizing why her father had seemingly abandoned Gwaren and his family had opened her eyes to the Theirins. King Maric had a habit of…_evading_ his responsibilities. Maric's devotion to an elf had almost undone his betrothal to Lady Rowan. Years later, the king abandoned a grief-stricken Prince Cailan for the thrill of travelling in the company of Grey Wardens. Then, to top it all, he rejected an illegitimate babe, allowing the boy to live in squalor; thankfully, the Chantry had rescued the unwanted son.

_Plink….plink….plinkplink….plink…._

Anora closed her eyes, focusing on her childhood friend and late husband.

All in all, she had loved the boyishly charming Cailan, and saw how he suffered from his father's heroic fantasies. Raised with stories of battles, intrigues and glory, he tried to be the man Maric himself dreamt of being. Soon after his father's death, Cailan lost interest in governing Ferelden. Concerned, she'd stepped in to administrate on his behalf. It was what she'd been trained to do, after all. Unfortunately, her duties caused a rift in their marriage. He'd felt rejected by her constant distraction, and decided to search for more 'attentive' audiences.

Loghain warned her of the potential harm of illicit offspring, so she kept a close eye on the women Cailan showed interest in. Erlina was a blessing with potions, poisons and the ability to remain unnoticed. A most trustworthy servant, Erlina was the perfect elf - dutiful, servile, and plain enough in appearance to be overlooked by Cailan.

She felt tears welling behind the dam of her eyelids. Rage, along with sorrow, swirled in a sudden tempest of emotion. Cailan had deserved a better death than the one he'd met. He may not have been the hero her father was, but he _was_ her best friend, the only one able to break through her self-protective barrier to remind her of the giggling children they'd once been. She _still_ struggled to forgive her father for leaving Cailan to face such an ignoble fate.

_Plink….plinkplinkplink….plink…._

After Cailan's demise, Anora became aware of the depth of her father's admiration for Queen Rowan. He believed the long-dead queen to be the last duty-bound monarch in Ferelden. Loghain was disappointed in Cailan for not inheriting Rowan's strength of character; he somehow came to the conclusion that it was time for Calenhad's line to end, and new blood to inherit the throne. As the only man left who actually _cared _for Ferelden, it was his duty to ensure strong leadership for the future security of his beloved country.

Through the devious insinuations of Rendon Howe, Loghain accepted the necessary demise of the House of Cousland. The Cousland's _worshiped_ the heirs of Calenhad. Fervently supporting the foolhardy King Cailan, they cast a blind eye over his inability to lead. Also troublesome were the Guerrin brothers. Eamon and Teagan hadn't fought for their country as her father had; therefore, did not understand the need to protect their homeland from foreigners.

Determined to see the rule of Ferelden within his daughter's capable hands, the Hero of River Dane began his march upon the path of madness. He relived the Orlesian occupation almost every waking moment. His eyes became bleak and shadowed as he slowly bowed to the torment of memories better left forgotten. The hero she adored changed into an easily corrupted, bitter old man.

_Plink….plinkplink….plinkplink…._

A crack of thunder interrupted her musings; the gale was ready to release its fury. She shuddered as an image of the Warden's eyes came to mind. In hindsight, they seemed to reflect the same haunted horror as Loghain's once did.

The Warden had been…_disconcerting…_during the attempted 'rescue'.

Storming the estate of Rendon Howe, Bryce and Eleanor's little girl unleashed her rage upon the unsuspecting members of the household, slaughtering every guard and soldier that dared to cross her path. From what Erlina had fearfully recalled, it was a _bloodbath_. Cousland was merciless and brutal in her retribution, her cold laughter chilling Erlina to the bone. Even Ser Cauthrien avoided meeting the Warden's wrathful stare. Whether it was fear or respect, Anora would never know. The regard battle-hardened warriors hold for one another is not the deference given to monarchs. She would always wonder what Cauthrien's last thoughts were.

As Queen of Ferelden, Anora had supported her father at the Landsmeet, of course. The Cousland girl was too _unbalanced_ to see the danger of a divided country, or understand the danger of placing their future into the hands of a puppet king. Sadly, only the timid Ceorlic seemed to understand the need to support Loghain.

_Plink….plinkplinkplink….plink…._

The Warden became convinced of the need to conscript Loghain. The following tantrum was inevitable, considering Alistair's lack of maturity, and the Warden seemed to wilt a little under the blast. Nevertheless, Cousland's decisions were not to be challenged, and Alistair inevitably conceded to her wishes.

Her father had redeemed himself in the eyes of the people by killing the Archdemon. He was their Hero once again.

She had been placed in the 'guest' tower while Denerim was being rebuilt. Eamon's choice most likely, showing the lack of trust he had in her. In the end, Alistair decided she was to be kept alive, possibly considering a future union. The once unwanted boy showed an unusual level of compassion and mercy toward her. He _would_ make a good husband, some day. Anora was fully aware of the manipulations of the sly old politician. The Royal Chancellor knew he'd be superfluous were she to rule alongside the new king. Eamon was far too concerned about blood, whereas she preferred competence. Sooner or later, hopefully, Alistair would remember past abandonment and neglect, and finally see Eamon's true nature. It was simply a waiting game for now. She _would_ survive this. She _had_ to.

She was her father's daughter, after all.

_Plink...plink...plinkplinkplinkplinkplink_

_-.-_

_You know, Orzammar looks great after going through the Landsmeet one too many times..._

_Thank you to: __**ChampionTheWonderSnail, HanFei, Shakespira, interesting2125, mutive, Ygrain33, Abydos Jackson, Reyavie, Piceron, From the Fade, KayraCousland and Lehni!**_


	17. Amethyne & Otto

_BioWare…Why did you highlight her name in yellow, and then withhold her conversation! [glares]_

_Written after watching_ Dr. Who: 'The Beast Below'. [waaaaahhhh]

Q.Q

The grownups didn't want to talk about it, but she knew. Her mama had been gone for over a year. She didn't think Mama was coming back.

She promised Mama that she'd be brave, as a big girl should be, just so Mama wouldn't worry when up north with the Lady. After Mama left, there was a riot. The city guards came in and killed a lot of the elves. After that, some elves got really sick, and died right out on the streets. She tried to stay away from their bodies so she wouldn't get sick, too. When the monsters came, and burned down most of their homes, she had been really, really scared, almost forgetting her promise to Mama.

She was still a little scared. With Papa gone to the Maker, and Mama missing, she didn't know _what_ would happen to her. The grownups were always nice, but they didn't have time to talk like Mama did. They were too busy fixing the Alienage.

For the last few days and nights the grownups had been busy sawing and hammering. Auntie Shianni had talked to the king about making new houses, so the king gave them piles and piles of wood. The noise kept her up most nights. That was when she missed Mama the most. She tried to stop herself from crying, trying to be brave like she promised. There was only one place she didn't feel lonely or sad. The Big House where her friend lived.

The grownups stayed away from the house, calling it the Bad House. City guards had killed most of the elves that had lived there, and then the bad things moved in. A Templar and some Grey Wardens had chased the bad things away, the grownups told her, but they were still afraid to go near it. _She_ wasn't. Young elves who didn't have a mama and papa - just like her – used to stay there. She didn't tell the grownups where she was going anymore, because they always got upset when she did. They didn't understand. Her friend wouldn't let anything hurt her when she went to visit him.

Once inside the big house, she breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn't hear the hammering in here. Creeping through the first hallway, she heard the lady singing. The songs were always so sad. Ghosts lived here now. They liked to play hide and seek sometimes. Little ones ran up and down the halls, laughing and calling out to her. Some of the ghosts were young, and others were grownup. She didn't know why they stayed here. Papa had gone to the Maker years ago, so why didn't _they_ go to Him as well? Were they too scared to? Or were they too angry? Some of them were very, _very_ angry.

The bad things might still be here, too. She learned not to touch the toys. They hurt when she tried to play with them. Maybe the bad things were hiding inside the toys, where she couldn't see them.

The desks, dressers and beds were turned upside down and sideways. Bones were piled up in corners. Dried-up blood made the floors look red. She was getting close to the big rooms, and felt the fear in her belly. Those rooms were the scariest.

The angry grownup ghosts were hard to go by without making them even angrier, 'cause she always bumped into the piles of dirt and cobwebs. Some of them screamed at her. Others had really scary laughs. She'd learned to walk very slowly in these rooms, always remembering what her friend told her. "_Stay away from the filth. Follow your heart. You will find a way_." He said he would protect her. All she had to do was call out his name if she got _too_ scared.

The last hallway! This is where her friend and the Wardens had fought the bad things he called demons. He said that he and the Wardens had killed most of them, but he died, and decided to stay instead of going to the Maker. She skipped down the hall and opened the door at the end. There he stood, tall and silvery, smiling at her just like Papa used to. "_Amethyne. It is good to see you again, my courageous little friend_."

Amethyne beamed with delight. All her loneliness went away when she was with him. He was the one who helped her be brave, and talked her through her tears, just like Mama and Papa used to. She ran to the spirit, eyes sparkling with joy. He could have gone to the Maker, but said that the little ones like her needed him more.

When he was alive, he was called Ser. Now that he was a ghost, he was simply her friend.

Otto.

O.O

_Amethyne's mother is Iona the elf from the Human Noble Origin._

_Thank you so much: __**Eva Galana, Abydos Jackson, KayraCousland, mutive, Shakespira, Lehni, Nightsfury, interesting2125, ChampionTheWonderSnail, Ygrain33, Piceron, Kendoka Girl, Reyavie and wayfaringpanda**__._


	18. Teagan

_BioWare owns…Marriage! Pfft!_

*.*

He had to re-read the scroll on his desk several times to allow the Royal Chancellor's 'request' to sink in. The Arling needed an heir. As the newly appointed Arl, it was now _his_ duty to produce a legitimate child. He grimaced. That meant…_marriage_. The word left a bad taste in his mouth. His youthful observations of those trapped in wedded discord had made him _very_ determined in his avoidance of _that_ misery-inducing existence, no matter _how_ lonely his life was.

When just a lad, he'd been placed with northern relatives during the Rebellion. With his mother's death at a young age, and his father's death in battle, he had no memories of their relationship together - little knowledge of how _their_ union worked. His siblings had not fared well with their own spouses, so who was to say _he_ would do better?

Not only had his sister been a great beauty, she was an inspiration to all, as well. A warrior _and_ a diplomat, she shone with an inner brilliance, seeming to swallow any darkness around her. Tragically, her spirit diminished after she married King Maric. Rowan's greatest joy had been her son, yet she faded away when the lad was far too young to remember her, leaving the boy to strive to be as his father, instead of her. A great pity, that.

His brother, on the other hand, became downright _giddy_ in his infatuation with a much younger woman. Though the boys had been acclimatized to foreign ways during their time in the Free Marches, it was still rather shocking that the _Queen's brother_ would actually take a non-Ferelden as his wife; an _Orlesian_ no less! Maric's outraged tirade was almost unbearable to listen to, but Eamon had been steadfast in his decision to wed the teenager.

When he came of age to take over the Bann of Rainesfere, it was a welcome relief for all involved. Isolde was insecure and jealous even _before_ she married his brother, which only worsened after the nuptials. She seemed to revel in making those around her as miserable as possible. Though Alistair bore the brunt of her fear and contempt, few were spared the tongue-lashings, including himself. He understood her anxiety; she was only protecting a seemingly tenuous hold on the title of Arlessa, but she was the primary reason he evaded all attempts to marry him off. He _refused_ to age as horrifically as his brother.

Teagan _still_ felt ashamed he hadn't interfered in Isolde's persecution of the innocent lad.

Attending Landsmeets only reinforced his jaded view of matrimony. Listening to the conversations of married nobility day after day in the Gnawed Noble Tavern was tiresome to say in the least. Bann Ceorlic was, by far, the most unbecoming version of wedded manhood. Other nobles seemed to dote excessively on their children - the _legitimate_ ones, at least. Many preferred to forget that the rank and file of Denerim's City Guard overflowed with the outcome of illicit dalliances.

In truth, there _were_ couples like Bryce and Eleanor Cousland. He'd heard of their devotion to one another. But, then again, why _wouldn't_ they be devoted? Theirs was one of the most influential Houses in Ferelden. United we stand, divided we fall, and all that.

Marriage, he had decided long ago, was created to remind nobles of the misery the commoners had to endure day in and day out. Even his nephew was unable to escape the despair. The few times they'd gone hunting together, he had seen a stronger, more decisive man than the one at Queen Anora's side. Poor Cailan.

Teagan sighed with exasperation as he carefully rolled up the scroll. Perhaps it would be best to look outside the noble houses for the mother of his heir. There were a couple of women from Redcliffe who, though of common birth, had uncommon abilities in the art of commerce. If they were young and appealing, he _could_ be inspired to create a future Arl; just maybe, if he were lucky enough.

Rather, if _they_ were lucky enough.

*.*

-.-

_Oddly enough, this was inspired by a few holiday party conversations (arguments, really) that took place at my table…pfft! _

_Happy New Year, happy Hogmanay! :D_

_Many thanks to: __**Shakespira, Ygrain33, mutive, wayfaringpanda, Lehni, Enaid Aderyn, ChampionTheWonderSnail, Kendoka Girl, Abydos Jackson and interesting2125**__!_


	19. Esmerelle

_BioWare owns…_

_"She had to do something, anything, to make that little smudge disappear." - A line from _'One step forward, two steps back'_. It tickled my evil funny bone so much I asked _midnight vinyls_ if I could borrow it…watch out Anora, I think midnight vinyls' mage has your number! _XD

_To Reyavie, who gave me this idea months ago, and never gave up nudging me to complete it…_

O.o

-.-

The letter slowly floated to the floor, her shaking fingers unable to bear the weight of it any longer. The conspiracy was dead. Actually, most of the _conspirators_ were dead. She alone remained. Her well structured plans were shattered, which left her with little choice - she would _not_ be judged by the whelp of traitors!

It was a grave mistake, trusting such _imbeciles_ to do what the Crows would have accomplished with triumphant certainty. Those noble-blooded cretins _deserved_ to die for their incompetence. Believing them to be somewhat intelligent, due to their level of education, was foolish on her part. They left evidence of the group's complicity behind. Now she was alone to face the outcome of _their_ failure to avenge Rendon's murder.

Her name was at the top of the list of conspirators. How was that possible? Had she not made it clear enough that there was to be nothing available to link them in their plans, just in case of investigation? Somehow someone had uncovered their plot. In all likelihood, that _someone_ had alerted the target.

She rose from her chair to walk over to the balcony, silently cursing her unsteady legs. The salt in the breeze was invigorating, allowing her thoughts to become clear; free from futile emotion. Breathing deeply, she took in the sights of the city below her.

Amaranthine had become tumultuous after the murder of Rendon Howe. The uneducated masses did not realize that he, through blood ties to Conobar Elstan, was the rightful ruler of Northeastern Ferelden. Unfounded rumours claiming _Rendon_ to be the traitor of Ferelden, rather than the Couslands, had caused great discord amongst the people. The uprisings from the commoners became too difficult to put down successfully. Grudgingly, she'd agreed to eliminate all memorials honouring the Howes in the face of impending disaster.

Not all of Rendon's subjects had succumbed to the lies, thankfully. She found allies hidden amongst the throngs of the ignorant. It had been comforting to learn of others still loyal to Rendon. How quickly the people forgot he had been rewarded by King Maric for his bravery in the rebellion against the Orlesians. He was a _hero_!

She was one of the few who knew the Howe family during the Occupation. Rendon's natural father, Padric Howe, had disappeared to follow a fool's dream of becoming a Grey Warden. The childless Tarleton Howe had quietly adopted Rendon as his son and heir. Raised to be practical and ambitious, Rendon chose to ally himself with Prince Maric against the Orlesians. It turned out to be a _very_ profitable decision. Once the Orlesians had been ousted, the City of Amaranthine became the wealthiest, most viable port city in the kingdom.

Though she knew Rendon's arranged marriage to another woman was for financial gain, Esmerelle still allowed herself moments of 'what if'. They kept their affair a secret for almost three decades. She _had_ hoped it would lead to a more publicly acknowledged union after he became a widower, but the memories of his bitter marriage made him uncomfortable when discussing matrimony. Gossipers snidely informed her of his lover in Denerim; such trivialities did not bother her, though. As the Bann of the City of Amaranthine, her wealth alone made her the best choice for Arlessa.

A devoted father, Rendon had been concerned about the weak disposition of his eldest son, deciding to ship him off to the Free Marches for tempering. From what Esmerelle had observed of the young man when she was forced to attend the ceremony at Vigil's Keep, he was _still_ weak in character, but had learned _something_ of survival. Rendon would have been somewhat proud at the sight of Cousland's whelp simpering before Nathaniel. Mind you, it would have been a slap in the face for Rendon to see his son a member of Grey Wardens.

Swearing allegiance to Rendon's murderer was a bitter experience, but she had little choice in the matter. Coldly contemptuous, she watched Amaranthine's nobility eagerly submit to the Warden Commander. They refused to see the flaws Cousland had inherited from her father. Amaranthine needed a strong, forceful leader like Rendon, not a soft, pandering fool as Bryce had been.

Rendon had once confided in her about the disquiet amongst the nobility regarding Bryce Cousland's trips to Orlais, indicating some sort of secret pact between the Empress and Highever. Bryce's steadfast refusal to accept betrothal offers from Ferelden noble houses had caused many to speculate on a marital alliance between a nephew of the Empress and the Cousland's youngest. With Fergus already married to an Antivan, the probable union of the Cousland girl to an Orlesian was nothing less than scandalous.

With that in mind, Rendon decided to end the governance of the Couslands to ensure Highever remained united with the rest of Ferelden. The Couslands' traitorous ways made them no more than mere smudges in the history books, ones that would eventually disappear in time. It was most unfortunate that the conniving Cousland offspring had survived.

As the last of those loyal to Rendon, Esmerelle felt empty and defeated. All her dreams had been ruthlessly squashed. Her lord and master had _not_ been avenged. She turned from the window, and strode towards the desk in her chamber. The knotted rope lay on the desktop, awaiting her final decision. She hoped Rendon would be waiting for her, but refused to pray for such a gift.

She would _not_ be judged by that murderous whelp.

-.-

O.o

_Gosh…thank you: __**Lehni, Shakespira, Enaid Aderyn, interesting2125, mutive, Kendoka Girl, Abydos Jackson, KayraCousland, ChampionTheWonderSnail, Reyavie and midnight vinyls**__!_


	20. Mother

_BioWare owns…_

_Blame ChampionTheWonderSnail for encouraging this…_

O.O

Disjointed, flickering memories of grass, trees, wind, warmth, and gentle rains. Images and sensations of the past now indistinct, lingering shadows.

A desperate battle. Dark, foul creatures.

Throaty, guttural laughter. Grasping, cutting claws.

Fear. Horror. Pain.

A cocoon of darkness, easing the excruciating and laborious transformation.

And then, unbidden, _The Song_.

The Song was at first merely a whisper. The whisper flowed through her body, bestowing a sense of freedom almost forgotten. Floating through the rock and silent caverns, the whisper touched her mind, allowing calm to replace the chaos therein. It filled her, empowered her, and encouraged her to direct others towards Its source. There was no sense of time, no caring how long she'd been there. All that mattered was The Song.

She missed the blessed darkness; missed the beloved Song that once wafted gently through the tantalizing mist of forgetfulness.

Hatred pulsated within her. She hated _them_ for destroying The Song, and most especially _him_ for the thoughtless 'gift' of awareness.

He named himself the Architect, but she knew he believed himself to be a godling, a Father to them all. Why else would he try to impose _his_ thoughts upon them? _His_ ideals? Father needed the dark ones to follow _his_ vision, pathetic as his ambitions were. As the Architect, he dared to call upon their most hated enemy_, the Grey Wardens, _to help him!

He _had_, however, liberated the True God. She had known the _moment _the Beautiful One stirred from His sleep. His whisper became a humming, a gentle call for oneness of all. When His worshipers responded in faithful unison, His Song became a joyous cry of passion, power and promise. He wanted to free His hidden children from the darkness, and bring an end to the unceasing conflict upon the surface. Beauty's Song invited the dark ones to see _His_ dream become reality. With fervent enthusiasm, they fought their fear of sunlight to fulfill His mission upon the surface.

Then suddenly, His Song became a scream, followed by horrifying silence.

The 'newly awakened' ones became discordant, rebellious in the absence of their god. Their rejection of the old ways pained her. They began to see Father as a god, so great was his deception. In their eyes, _she_ was the new enemy.

Even her most powerful servants were losing faith in her ability to unify them. She would have to deal with them before they rose up against her, or allied themselves with Father. Thankfully, she had her beloved Children to protect her. _Their_ love and devotion was no less than the loyalty and reverence she once had for the Beautiful One.

Closing her eyes, she moved her arms slowly, gently fanning the air around her, calling upon her magicks. She allowed the streams of energy to engulf her undulating body, enjoying the sensation of power as it caressed her skin. It was critical to find _him_ before he found _her_. She knew of his plan to have her killed by the Grey Wardens. For now, it was just a matter of who had the greatest number of followers.

She blinked, and then released a loud, strident cackle. Black liquid spurted from widened, despairing eyes as the laughter abruptly transformed into deep, wrenching sobs. The Grey Wardens had arrived! She could _feel_ the loathsome destroyers of her glorious god invading her lair.

First she would kill the Grey Wardens, and _then_ she would kill _him_. When all her enemies were dead, she would call the darkspawn to her side, and guide them to a new god willing to unify them once more.

Mother yearned for The Song to return, putting an end to the madness.

O.O

_I hope this one isn't too spot on…ewwww…think of the therapy bills! ;D_

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	21. Eamon

_BioWare created…_

_To Ygrain33 for being such a brilliant teacher. My heart goes out to anyone living in the non-existent Czech Revar. Hope ffnet finds the time to look into it! _;D

_The thought of King Cailan as an old man was an inspiration, for some odd reason._

^.^

He was a simple man with simple needs. First and foremost he was a family man, with a beautiful wife, enchanting son, and devoted brother.

Born into the Fereldan nobility meant he naturally stood out from the crowd. His dignified bearing alone was testimony to the aristocratic blood coursing through his body. The commoners' commendable admiration for his ancestry did keep him humble, and _grateful,_ for the opportunity to make a difference in their lives. These days Ferelden needed a unifier. He _knew_ he was the best man for the job, and would do what was necessary to see his kingdom united once more.

The first task of returning reins of rule to worthy hands had been completed impeccably, with the assistance of the Cousland girl, of course. Rowan would have been _proud_ of his achievement.

Next on his agenda was the need for a protective barrier in the south.

The disturbing news of the darkspawn invasion from of the Korcari Wilds was just one example of how vulnerable they were to invasion. A barricade was needed to ensure the safety of the southerners. Though many had lost their lives during the Blight, even more had lost their homes and vocations. The survivors would surely be _jubilant_ at the thought of keeping their country safe from future destruction.

Homeless and unemployed survivors would be gathered up to march down to the Korcari Wilds. There they would dig a trench or canal right across southern Ferelden, from the mountains to the ocean. The seawater would flow through to flood the hidden caves, drowning the insidious darkspawn. The idea was simply _brilliant_. The only glitch in his plan was the probable change in geography. Ferelden may be altered, _ever so slightly_, by the surging seawater. He would have to consider a name change for his kingdom, just in case - preparation was the most prudent path, after all. Quill in hand, he scribbled.

By the Maker! What genius! Why not name the soon-to-be-altered Ferelden after _the_ _river_. Ferel Dane! He grinned with delight.

Ferel Dane Canal was added to the agenda.

A pity about the Chasind and Dalish, but he had to ensure the protection of his own people first. The wild folk and nomads would be most welcome to assist in the creation of the Canal, though. Many hands make light work, so it was said.

With that problem decided upon, he scanned his list. Next on the agenda was _marriage_.

Not his own, of course. He was deliriously happy with his wife. Teagan, on the other hand, had been stubbornly resistant for far too long. As the new Arl of Redcliffe, it was time the man found himself a wife to lift his spirits, inspire his passions, and bring forth light into his rather gloomy life. Perhaps a letter emphasizing the need for an heir would inspire Teagan to begin his search.

Heir was added to the agenda.

Hmmm. There was something else he had planned to take care of. _What was it?_

Ah, yes. _Alistair! _

He _did_ regret Isolde's rejection of the lad all those years ago. If given the truth, he knew she would have been _ecstatic_ at the thought of raising Maric's son. Unfortunately, Maric didn't _specify _the type of care the babe was to receive; only that he was to be sheltered, given the chance to live a life free from royal constraints. The knowledge of Alistair's lineage was to remain a private matter. It was a _regrettable_ lack of clarification on Maric's part, but one that worked out well in the end. By the time Alistair joined the Grey Wardens, he was already accustomed to an austere life.

In hindsight, Alistair should have been schooled rather than left to run around in stables and kennels. The boy lacked political savvy as well as emotional self-control. If he had known how shoddy the level of education was in the Chantry, he would have searched for an alternative residence for the youngster.

Alistair's unflagging loyalty and devotion toward him, akin to an imprinted Mabari, was endearing, but the lad's Mabari-like stubbornness brought to light possible _challenges_ in their future rule together. As well, the moments of uncanny insight that shone from the young man's eyes could be rather unnerving.

Weariness crept over him at the thought of the unenviable task before him. Within the space of a few months Alistair would have to be transformed into the king that Cailan had been. If she would be willing to accept her proper place in the order of things, Anora _could_ be of great assistance in Alistair's training.

Educating Alistair was added to the list.

As _all_ great men find sooner or later in their lifetime, he had detractors. It was easy to ignore the petty minds and jealous spirits of those who felt diminished by his noble persona. Guerrins naturally cast a far-reaching shadow whilst striding upon the path of purpose and duty. The naysayers would have the people believe he was a manipulator - a puppet master, even. He scoffed at them, knowing that much of his ability to sway the crowd was innate; a gift passed down through generations of well bred forefathers. His wife constantly reminded him of his preeminence through her adorable bouts of jealousy.

Critics tried to attack him through unfounded rumours. He'd heard the innuendoes concerning his wife and brother. As preposterous as it sounded, some dared to suggest that Connor was actually his nephew! Hogwash! His son looked _nothing_ like Teagan! The hair was the wrong colour, for example. Even though it had been decades since there'd been any real hue in his own mane, he was _positive_ Connor's colouring was much like his own when _he_ was a youngster. Perhaps he should look through the Guerrin estate for old portraits of himself. Hanging them up around the palace would _definitely_ put an end the gossip about Connor's paternity!

He added the palace portrait placement onto his burgeoning agenda.

As for Connor's parentage, Teagan couldn't possibly be the father, as he had _never_ displayed magical ability. Come to think of it, no-one in the Guerrin family had ever shown signs of being a mage, according to the Redcliffe historical scrolls. The Orlesians, however, were a _very_ magical people. Isolde was an enchanting example of that.

Eamon congratulated himself for being blessed with such a gracious, loving, and _noble_ woman as his wife. That she displayed decorum while walking in the shadow of a Guerrin spoke volumes of her own faultless breeding.

Grimacing at his empty teacup, he began to scribble again. That brew of hers was so delicious; he knew she had much better things to do than constantly be at his beck and call for a refill. To ease her workload, he'd have his servants prepare the tea for him from now on.

Isolde's Tea Recipe was added to the list.

^.^

_Oh noes! Remember chapter 10?_

_Thank you for warming me up on these rather chilly Canadian days: __**Lehni, Shakespira, Reyavie, Enaid Aderyn, ChampionTheWonderSnail, interesting2125, Abydos Jackson, mutive, Ygrain33 and Kendoka Girl!**_


	22. Dagna

_BioWare owns…_

_Hubs dared me to turn Adorable into __**Evil**_… XD

O.O

Wearing her most sympathetic smile, she greeted the newest mages upon their arrival. Easily startled, the little ones were understandably nervous and fearful of their surroundings, eyes darting to and fro at every noise. These poor, frightened children had been completely brainwashed, unaware of their innate supremacy. Young minds full of ruthless Chantry rhetoric were easy to imprison, all their potential currently locked up, soon to be forgotten. She, on the other hand, knew what power was _and_ how to wield it.

While growing up she'd been mesmerized while watching the comings and goings of the Carta through her father's shop. The true rulers of Orzammar had stood right in front of her, and she listened, fascinated by the plotting and planning, hanging on to every word. Threats and bribery made Beraht and Jarvia the most feared and powerful dwarves in the city. However, she did noticed that _even with_ muscle and gold to sway the masses, they both lacked imagination. Rogek the lyrium smuggler was on the right path, but had little ambition. Blessed with both imagination and ambition in abundance, all she needed was opportunity.

She spent years honing her skills. At first glance her size appeared to be a great impediment. Even amongst her own kind she was considered diminutive. Lacking the physique necessary to be a fighter, she concentrated on disarming people through persona. Wide eyes and a broad smile became her trademark. Cheerful inflections were more difficult to perfect, but years of practice made her joyous speech pattern almost natural.

Her father's dreams for her ended when it became clear she did not have the strength or endurance to become an armourer or weaponsmith, so he decided to have her study the effect of lyrium infusion with different metals instead. While reading through the Shaperate tomes, she discovered her greatest ability: the retention of knowledge. Through further study she learned of the power and influence in the lyrium trade. The one who controlled the lyrium controlled the world.

The final test had been in her ability to persuade the Grey Wardens. It turned out to be rather easy to convince them of her lifelong dream of furthering her education at the Circle Tower. Even the grim and jaded Wardens couldn't resist cute and bubbly, apparently. With the acceptance of Bhelen as king it wouldn't be long before the reforms came, and surfacers welcomed back through the gates. She'd already decided to return as the mightiest of them all.

After arriving at the Circle Tower, her knowledge of lyrium had quickly impressed the mages, and the lack of magical ability endeared her to the Templars. They would never know she was manipulating the stream of lyrium the Chantry brought their way. Templars began to crave the 'extras' in her lyrium recipes, paying well for their hunger to be satiated. Mages felt their abilities develop with each dose of her lyrium concoction, becoming more and more acquiescent as they waited for their next 'fix'.

Finally living amongst the most powerfully gifted of the surface dwellers, she could see her dreams coming into fruition. Memories of chiding Rogek for his lack of ambition, observing her father grovel to Beraht, and watching Jarvia elevated to the status of a queen were far behind her now. They'd all been toppled by their own short-sightedness. Might did _not_ make right, nor was paying someone else to do the dirty work profitable.

Real power, she'd learned, lay in one's ability to influence others - to manipulate from behind the scenes. In her hands the mages could be trained as living weapons, moulded to suit her needs. With her fortified lyrium, the Templars would be willing slaves, begging for their addiction to be alleviated.

Dagna chuckled as she led the children to the apprentice quarters. The First Enchanter and the Knight Commander preferred to let _her_ introduce the young ones to life in the Tower. The little magelings considered her to be cute and adorable, completely devoid of hostility or threat.

Let the topsiders think what they want.

Cute and adorable doesn't necessarily mean sweet and kindly.

O.o

^.^

_OMG! Noooo…_

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_May the Chinese New Year bring great things your way! :D_


	23. Perth

_BioWare owns…_

Q.Q

Nothing had changed on the _surface_, he noted. The town still bustled; boisterous crowds gathered at the tavern; the lake continued to cleanse the odorous docks. The sun shone on as the winds blew, and clouds clustered over the horizon.

What had happened, then, to make darkness creep around the edge of his vision? Why were so many shadows lingering at every corner? Even the beds of flowers, blades of grass, and leaves upon the tree appeared ominous in their movement. Why was he so _afraid _of everything these days? His heart felt heavy, sorrow from countless losses finally becoming too much to bear. The Maker and His Beloved Andraste had forsaken them when aid was needed most. What was the point of praying to an uncaring god or prophet? Blind faith may be comforting to some, but the innocent in Redcliffe had needed more. Only his vows had kept him from bolting in terror, heedless of his duties.

Arl Eamon had turned his back on the destruction brought forth by the devious actions of the Arlessa. Though the Arl had been unconscious during the heinous crimes committed against the villagers, none now spoke of the damage inflicted during Redcliffe's darkest hours. The silence was deafening. Were those of noble birth _above_ the laws of man?

Even his heroes were no longer anything more than an innocent boy's fancy, ever banished from his now-jaded mind. Loghain Mac Tir became the greatest hero of the Dragon Age by ousting the tyrannical foreigners all those years ago, yet became a murderous tyrant _himself_. Rendon Howe, also a hero in the service of the late King Maric, walked alongside the Hero of River Dane down the traitorous path. What had caused their great souls to fester with such evil?

He recalled the day he met the Warden, when she stood before him to offer assistance. He'd hesitated to ask for a seemingly simple boon, fearing ridicule for his fellow knights' lack of faith. Rather than show derision, however, she seemed to understand the need for the blessing of the amulets. The Warden did not scoff at his faith; nay, she did something far worse. She had smiled indulgently, as a mother would to her naïve, ignorant child. Her air of gentle condescension had filled him with dismay - she did not believe!

The true horror awaited them in the castle after the walking dead had been defeated. The Redcliffe knights weren't prepared for the demonic possessions, poisonings, or the blood magic. The Grey Wardens, on the other hand, appeared unfazed. They later explained they'd dealt with such matters in the Circle Tower, Brecilian Forest, and Orzammar. _No wonder_ she had no faith.

Like most boys, he once had fanciful dreams of joining the Order of the Grey Wardens. But, after having met them, he was unnerved by their ways. Honour and nobility of spirit were deemed unnecessary in their ranks from what he'd observed. Perhaps their Order considered themselves beyond the reach of all laws, including those imposed by the Chantry. The companions of the Wardens had shown themselves to be a desperate, irreverent lot. With one or two exceptions, they held no love for the Maker or Andraste. He realized the reality of a hero was nothing like the fantasy.

Now, in the aftermath of the Blight, he found no relief from his fears, no answers to his questions. He remembered stories of the end of days he'd heard when a boy. Dead rising and walking amongst the living, with pestilence and blights destroying the land. He didn't dare think about further calamities. Having sworn to abide by his duty, he had no choice but to fight his fears. He was, after all, a Knight.

Ser Perth stood before the steps leading to the doors of the Chantry, and stared at the once revered building. His disquiet grew stronger the closer he came to the supposed place of serenity and hope.

His duty compelled him to protect the people of Redcliffe, but who protected _him_?

Q.Q

_Thanks for your continuous support: __**Shakespira, mutive, Abydos Jackson, Piceron, interesting2125, Lehni, wayfaringpanda, Reyavie, Enaid Aderyn, midnight vinyls, Ygrain33, and ChampionTheWonderSnail.**_


	24. Guardian

_BioWare created…_

O.o

The Ages flew by with astonishing speed. Ancient stones that had been carved, cut and transported to form this sacred abode were finally beginning to crumble and crack, covering the floors with dust. The once dutiful followers were _also_ transformed with time - gentle reverence eventually consumed by madness and desperation due to self-imposed isolation. Andraste's most dedicated worshipers became confused, believing a reptile their Prophet returned. Centuries of seclusion had led to dissidence within the ranks of the mountain people. He mourned for them, knowing the need for secrecy had brought about their troubles and demise.

Patience was the key to his continuation_. _Andraste gave him the gift of sight beyond sight to _understand _the difference between unwavering faith and inflexible fervour. Whilst the former seemed to be a rare quality, the latter overflowed with alarming force upon this mountain peak. And now a new age of Her followers had made their home within the village below. Fascination and fanaticism were merely the flip sides of the same coin in his ever vigilant eyes.

The sound of long ago battles echoed faintly in his mind, fading as the haunting beauty and power of the Blessed Song reminded him of his purpose. Andraste had loved all Her followers, no matter their ability or faith. She _was_ love. He had chosen to devote himself to Her Song till the end of time, if need be, as the protector of Her Sacred Flame - Her Undying Knight. The Tevinter Empire, though currently held back by the giant folk of the Book, was still powerful, and undiminished in its magical might. It appeared he would linger here for a long time to come.

The eternal aspect of his vow was baffling at times, as was the source of the constant flow of visions. He had but to close his eyes to see the farthest stars, the eddying clouds of light beyond his ken. In the vastness of eternity, evil lurked in the darkest shadows, patiently waiting to extinguish the essence of the heroic. Malevolent hunger was everywhere, in many forms, and no less dangerous than the darkspawn in their brutality. As the Maker created, others destroyed. Alien voices whispered, and he understood their tale. In faraway places, the heroes faced insurmountable odds. Noble spirits challenged insidious evil. Fiery righteousness protected the helpless from ancient malice. An oft repeated tale, it seemed.

The recent visit of the newest Ferelden heroes gave him hope for the beleaguered of this land. Tormented, a slave to memory, the young lady was deemed worthy by the Spirits when she overcame all their archaic challenges. Unfortunately, the protagonists took little comfort in their accomplishment. They could not see Andraste's Light guiding them through all their undertakings. Saddened by their lack of faith in the Prophet's influence, he accepted their disbelief. This holy place was nothing more than a stepping stone to them.

Templars from the newly re-discovered village of Haven came to the temple from time to time. When standing before them, he could feel their awe and disbelief. He wondered about these great Warriors of the Flame. Why would the Chantry allow Andraste's mightiest children to become so spiritually _flawed_? Her Beloved Song had become distorted, forgotten in its intent. As Her first Templar, and most likely Her last, he was troubled by the barely contained wrath dwelling within the hearts of the Holy Knights. Andraste had fought for the end of Tevinter domination _through_ their command of magic, not the elimination _of_ the magic. These Templars had been led off the path created by the Prophet, their hearts and minds swayed by fearful sermons, preached by those who did not understand Her words. The Templars were to be pitied. Those who caused the hate, however, would be held responsible for their deeds by the Maker alone. It was not his place to judge.

The Guardian watched and waited as the stories unfolded around him. New heroes were born, new tales told.

The Maker had every reason to be proud.

O.O

^.^ '_The Maker' being BioWare, of course!_

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	25. Architect

_BioWare created, I_ _**really**_ _played...Oh, the Inhumanity of It All..._

_Partially based on The Calling by David Gaider...  
_

O.O

He could not say when he came to be. Memories of his past no longer interested him, the once keen loneliness confined to a few notes scribbled into his journal. From time to time, he observed, a broodmother spawned unfitting offspring who immediately became fodder for other broodlings. Not so with him. He was self-protective and aware from the very beginning, containing powers unmatched by any of his siblings; where the powers came from, and how he knew to use them, remained a mystery.

Much of his youth was spent exploring the endless tunnels and caverns, searching for something…_anything_…to lessen his boredom. After coming across an abandoned campsite, his curiosity flared. He found discarded pieces of plant material, beaten flat and spattered with thin, dark streaks. Also catching his attention were shards of rock, crude lines scratched across their surfaces. Sensing a challenge, he studied the objects intently, attempting to grasp their purpose. Sniffing and tasting the items offered no clues. He would have to find more campsites, perhaps study the travelers up close.

For many a year he crept around in the shadows, hunting down the short, grunting nomads. He knew them to be the enemy of his kind, so kept himself well hidden. Through his observations, he watched them create more scratches on rocks, and more dark streaks on unrolled plant material using strange tools. Struggling to unlock the secret of the symbols, he copied their patterns in the sands and on rocks with a dagger he'd found. He used this learning period to listen as the tiny cave dwellers grunted to one another, and began to recognize the pattern of the sounds. One day he tried to emulate the little ones, twisting his tongue in uncomfortable ways, hearing their words issue forth from his lips. His surprise was no less than theirs; he almost forgot to protect himself from their sudden, furious attack. Inspired by the breakthrough, he became obsessed with a need for further communication, studying other creatures and tongues. Perhaps one day he could find one who would speak to him in return rather than assault him on sight.

Armed with his new knowledge, he concentrated his energy on interpreting their scribbles. Many more years passed before the history of the dwarves, elves, and humans opened up to him. The Song of the Old Gods was a revelation - until then he'd never _understood_ the compulsive digging of his kind. With this information came an idea. If he could somehow end the obsession of his brethren, the darkspawn _could_ have what he took for granted: choice.

Traveling across the expanse of the Deep Roads, he discovered numerous pathways leading to the surface. Much to his chagrin, he learned that language differed from area to area. Through luck or design (he would never know) he found a kindred spirit, an Orlesian mage dwelling upon the land known as Ferelden.

The memory of his previous attempt to free the darkspawn from their thralldom all those years ago made him grimace. With the aid of First Enchanter Remille, his goal was to create a population of tainted ones across the lands of Thedas. Too late he'd realized the dream of unifying the deep dwellers and surface folk, without incurring the destruction of a new Blight, was his alone. The plan was an abysmal failure. Only the acceptance and companionship of Utha, the dwarven Silent Sister Grey Warden, made the disaster salvageable.

His appearance had changed from those days; the use of an ancient Tevinter restoration spell caused his body to alter from his original emissary form. When attempting to replace the arm he'd lost at the Circle Tower, the spell went awry. Astonished at first, he became satisfied with his new, distinctive shape. He believed a darkspawn in human form to be ideal, easily recognizable as a potential ally. Yet again, he was mistaken.

With Utha's blood readily available, he began his experiments, eventually forming a new plan. Here, at last was the secret unveiled. As the darkspawn blood created the Grey Wardens, blood from a Grey Warden created the Disciples. Sadly, the newly freed Disciples rebelled against him, each in their own individual way. His greatest failure, Mother, gathered the most powerful of them to her side. Those remaining dedicated to his cause undermined his preparations at every turn.

Withered succumbed to his bestial nature, commanding the darkspawn to attack Vigil's Keep. Rather than offer the chance of an alliance as he'd been requested to do, Withered chose to kill the Grey Wardens, which eventually led to his death. Seeker decided to conduct his own tests with the wild elves and humans; using ancient distrust to manipulate the elven enmity, he hid the darkspawn interference on a whim.

The First, Lost and Herald abandoned him, forming an alliance with Mother. He knew of her hatred, her need for revenge, but was not overly concerned; Mother was anchored, immobile. Though containing powerful magicks herself, she was incapable of hunting him down. For the time being he was safe from her. Her madness troubled him, though. Perhaps Utha's dwarven blood was the problem. Since dwarves were resistant to magic, their blood _could_ be intolerable to those of magical means. He hoped his experiments on the elf would give him the answer. With Seranni, he hoped to find potential magical ability, giving him the chance to eliminate future versions of Mother.

The last Disciple left for him to trust was Messenger, who somehow managed to retain the steadfast nature of Utha. Messenger was the only real success from all his research _and_ the greatest mystery. How was he to duplicate what he could not comprehend?

The Ferelden Grey Warden Commander might be the key to the mystery. She was as strong and driven as the indomitable Orlesian Grey Warden Commander Genevieve he'd met all those years ago. He hoped the blood he'd drawn from her would create Disciples no less capable than she. Only time would tell.

His senses suddenly flared. Their presence snapped him out of his reverie. The Grey Wardens had arrived. The young Commander's steely determination most likely meant that many a corpse lay behind her. He briefly wondered if he would survive their next meeting, clearly recalling her fury when they last spoke. Would she be more reasonable this time?

The Architect looked over at Seranni, nodding to the doorway which led to the entrance of Drake's Fall. She left to convince her sister of the importance of their collaboration. He smiled briefly at Utha. Once again they would stand side by side in the face of overwhelming odds. The Silent Sister had not lost her faith in him, after all these years. It must be a dwarven characteristic.

Humans, on the other hand, were so very fickle.

O.o

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	26. Lanaya

_BioWare created..._

_Vallaslin _= blood writing.

_Sylaise the Hearthkeeper _= Goddess who taught the Elvhenhan how to light fires, to weave, and heal through herbs and magic.

Q.Q

Zathrian's entrance into her life was no less terrifying than an unpredictable tempest. Thunder pealed from his lips, lightning flashed from his hands, and flames leapt from his eyes. The ferocity of his attack scattered her captors, who quickly fell under the onslaught of the wild elven archers. Terror promptly became relief when he showed concern for her well-being, which then transformed into awe under his gentle ministrations. He was, in her dazed eyes, a _god_.

The former captive grew, blossoming in the company of the nomadic tribe. She learned to cherish the land and all the wild inhabitants as dearly as they did. Trees, fish, birds, bears, and wolves were cousins to them – each containing a purpose, a _spirit_ of their own. The Creators had blessed her with the chance to appreciate the unity of life, and she reveled in the 'oneness of all'. Chantry sermons were never forgotten, but her new understanding of the pantheon was far more _fulfilling_.

During her _vallaslin_ ceremony, she basked in an abundance of courage and strength when meditating on the gifts of Sylaise the Hearthkeeper. Much too her surprise, Zathrian praised her for tapping into the latent healing magic he'd sensed in her from the beginning. Many of the elders disapproved when he chose her to be his apprentice - his First - but he was inflexible in his decision.

Initially, the years of instruction were an exercise in patience as she learned of the Elvhenhan lore. She began to understand the need to be a walker of the ancient path, searching for forgotten words and ways. Zathrian taught her to _feel _the rhythmic pulse of the trees, _hear _the ancestral spirits humming in the wind, and _see_ the Beyond without the aid of sleep.

As her awareness of the clan's history deepened, Zathrian became more of an enigma than a god. His apparent immortality was known to _all_ the Dalish tribes, but when questioned about the source of elongated life, he would withdraw behind a cold, hard mask. Though he never spoke of it directly to her, she discovered much from the sighing winds. They whispered a story of children, of death, and a long-standing form of revenge tied to blood. The trees in the Brecilian Forest were the keepers of Zathrian's secrets, and she began to fear for her adopted family whenever they approached the ancient woodlands.

Although the Dalish lived according to the _'Way of The Three Trees'_, it became apparent that her savior did not. _'Fly straight and do not waver. Bend but never break. Together we are stronger than the one_' was the prayer repeated daily by the wild elves, with the exception of her beloved mentor. He would only join in at the end to affirm, _'We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit_'. As his apprentice, she was not able to condemn him for his lack of reverence. All she could do was pray for his release from the timeless rage and hate simmering in his heart.

Her loyalty towards Zathrian never wavered, even in the face of impending doom from the cursed werewolves; a curse she knew he was part of. She clung to the belief that her hero would rise to the occasion and save them all. Trust and faith paid off in the end, but the cost was so very bittersweet.

Now his people looked to her for answers and guidance. The loss of Zathrian's leadership left a huge void in their lives, and none in the clan missed him more than she. Since his body was never found, they planted a tree in his memory with the hope that his spirit would spring forth, renewed, ready to shelter them upon their return.

The land suffered greatly with the passage of the blighted ones, and the Dalish mourned the infection that spread into everything around them. Trees and grasses grew stunted and crooked. Wolves and bears transformed into mindless, spiritless beasts, attacking without provocation or need. Fish gasped painfully, slowly suffocating in the tainted water. All that they loved and worshiped was dying, and they were unable to halt the destruction. Praying did not alleviate the sorrow, but it did give them courage to face the dawn and prepare for a new day.

Thankful for their alliance against the Archdemon, the new Ferelden king granted the Dalish a permanent homeland south of Ostagar. They settled there, waiting for the healing to begin. She knew, sooner or later, that the king's people would find reasons to explore the southern lands in search of wealth, perhaps attempt to claim it for themselves. Elves - wild or tame - had few rights in Ferelden, and little protection from the Crown. Her greatest gift to the Dalish was that she never forgot what she learned from the humans. She hoped her memories would be enough to keep her people safe.

As their new Keeper, it was now_ Lanaya's_ duty to ensure that they would never again submit.

Q.Q

_After succumbing to the cold of the century for three long, painful weeks, I finally decided to stop being sick and tired of being...well, sick and tired, so decided to write it out, sort of! XD_

Thank you: _**Ygrain33, Abydos Jackson, Shakespira, Lehni, Enaid Aderyn, midnight vinyls, ChampionTheWonderSnail, mutive, interesting2125 and The Box**_. Big hugs to all of you!


	27. Oghren

_BioWare owns…_

_Inspired by Metallica's 'official' video 'Unforgiven'… _

Q.Q

Staring at the tankard in his hands, he wondered how long it would take to forget the past. For years he'd tried to defeat the demons creeping through the fog. Memories of angry shouts and bitter snarls echoed faintly in his head, hushed but never silenced. Hard fists and harsh words meant to build character. A mother lost in drink. A father determined to see the boy a man. Family history he didn't want his own little blighter to know.

Life for his kind was set in Stone the moment they left their momma's teats behind. Tradition and violence went hand in hand in their upbringing. The Ancestors shadows loomed over everything, large in life and unforgettable in death. To him, it was a matter of kneeling or being his own man. He had never learned to conform, as broken as he was.

Scars covered his body long before he was old enough to train. The inner wounds festered, unhealed, until his education began. Only then did he find release, an outlet for the hurt. Able to ignore physical pain, he excelled at being a Berserker; but, much to the shame of his House, failed miserably at constraint. The lack of self-control didn't matter on the battlefield. Defeating the enemy brought honour. He once brought his House _a lot_ of honour.

Fighting was second nature to him, as seen in the Provings and the Deep Roads. Sometimes in the Commons or Dust Town. Nobody thought to teach him how to switch it off - that's what Tapsters was for. Bash in a few heads, nick your weapon on someone's armour, bask in the glory, and then go get drunk. The life of a warrior was good until he forgot the rules.

They decided to marry him off, thinking 'domestic bliss' would dull the rage. Between his drinking and her genius, the marriage never stood a chance. The yelling and screaming continued on, but at least he got something out of it this time. In the making up, he was finally free of the memories. After a while he began to notice that his wife was a bit..._unstable_, becoming obsessed with things better left alone. As bad as it was when she changed his House's name to hers, it was worse when she took the House and disappeared.

Soon enough he was the laughing stock, the angry drunk. During a fight to prove his honour the Berserker got away from him, so they stripped him of his name and weapons. Might as well have been a Duster at that point. Tapsters became his refuge from the memories. The hold the past had on him loosened with the ale. When the Warden found him, their meeting changed his life. The compassion in her eyes jarred and angered him at first, until he noticed that she was haunted, too. Here was someone who _understood_.

She was the only one who thought him worthy of a second chance, since his own people saw nothing more than a pissy drunk. Her companions were displeased, but her leadership was strong. They'd learned not to question the Warden's commands. The Deep Roads brought them together, and there they bonded in spite of the horror - or maybe, because of it.

Too old and beaten to feel regret for the dead and corrupted members of his old House, he'd still felt a need to hold onto Branka, despite her disturbing madness. Their former life was all he had _left_. A wave of bitterness swept over him when he thought of the Warden's ultimate decision, but he pushed it back, knowing she did what had to be done. Didn't stop him from being abrasive with her, though. He had to show the young ex-noble that he couldn't be swayed by that silver tongue of hers.

Listening to the muted conversations of his comrades around the fire, he knew they were uneasy, already weary of the constant battles. They had not yet realized that Grey Wardens know no peace. Only the Commander got it. Enemies on the outside were much like the ones on the inside - always sneaking around where you couldn't see them, waiting for your guard to go down. Joining up with the Wardens was the best thing that had ever happened to him. In Orzammar he was a whipping boy, a regretful old man with nothing but the Legion of the Dead to look forward to.

Up here he was Oghren the Warrior, a heroic Grey Warden. He aimed to keep it that way.

O.o

_Many thanks to_ – _**Shakespira, Enaid Aderyn, ChampionTheWonderSnail, interesting2125, midnight vinyls, Abydos Jackson, mutive, Lehni, Reyavie and Kendoka Girl**__!_


	28. Elissa

_Bioware created Dragon Age…_

_This quote from ASOIAFs 'A Game of Thrones' says everything I consider the Order of the Grey Wardens to be about:_

_"…_**love is the bane of honor, the death of duty**." _Maester Aemon Targaryen to Jon Snow._

_So, now that I think I've finally figured out the mystery of Jon's parentage, and finished crawling around endless dirty vents in Deus Ex: HR, I'm getting myself prepared to wrap this up…after a year and a bit, it's about time, I say! _

Q.Q

_Gasping for breath, she tried to ignore the agony of torn flesh and bloody wounds while sprinting through the ancient castle's broken, burning corridor. Clanking metal indicated the proximity of the soldiers giving chase. Giant tentacles shot from the stone beneath her feet as she ran. Terrified, she frantically swung Starfang and the Cousland sword simultaneously, attempting to create a path of escape through the fetid, grasping limbs. _

_Momentarily stunned by the reverberation of an ear-splitting roar, she looked up at the top of the parapet in horror, instantly recognizing the gigantic winged figure as her ultimate nemesis. _Urthemiel_: creator of the circumstances that shattered her heart, splintering her soul. Rage and desperation numbed all her physical pain as she glared at the beast above. She bellowed a challenge to the mighty dragon, pure hatred filling her heart as she readied herself for the battle ahead, knowing only one of them would survive…_

_Suddenly, an enormous raptor swooped past the Archdemon, grabbing her in its huge talons. Sam and Alistair dangled from its legs, each holding onto the huge bird for dear life. The dragon roared again, immediately taking flight to chase the upstart rescuer…_

_Father, Mother, Oriana, Oren and Gilmore, lying bloodied and broken on the floor of a crimson spattered torture chamber. Movement from the side caught her eye as the butcher appeared from the shadows, exposing his hawkish nose, bitter, serpentine eyes, and sneering lips. The Cousland heirloom thrummed in her hand, longing to spill his oh-so-noble blood..._

_Sam, her most cherished gift from murdered parents, horrifically transformed. Spikes sprang from his rotting flesh. Black saliva seeped from dagger-sharp teeth. Her life-long friend turned monstrosity, altered by the demons of the deep. He howled as he leapt at her, his great maw aiming for her throat…_

She woke with a start, one hand grasping her throat to cut off a scream, the other pressing against her leather breastplate. '_Breathe…breathe…breathe. It's only a dream'_.

Her body sagged back upon the bedroll. Rivulets of sweat rolled down around her ears, and she shook her head reflexively. Tears leaked from her eyes, unbidden and unwanted. She growled in frustration. Tears were a sign of weakness she could not afford to show. Not now.

Groaning softly, she rose from her bedroll situated by the campfire. There would be no more sleep tonight. The surrounding tents were a welcome sight, for they were a reminder that she _wasn't_ alone. Not yet.

Having given up dwelling on past losses, she did feel a twinge of fear at the thought of losing these newest members of her Order. They were so…_innocent_ in their faith. They believed that the darkspawn blood made them invincible - unlike the former companions who stood at her side in defiance of the dark ones, _fully aware_ of how vulnerable they were.

For nineteen years she had lived the life of a pampered princess. Now she constantly ached. There was no relief from the outer pain or inner sorrow, no escape from haunting nightmares. Nicks and cuts, bumps and bruises from a naive past were long forgotten. Only an empty space of where her soul had been was left to remind her of what lay behind her.

The blood of many an innocent dripped from her hands…there was no consolation in her new titles. No great prize awaited the 'hero'. Nor any sense of peace. Just the taint and all its corrupted power.

Her father had considered the Grey Wardens to be heroic. He was mistaken. Father had also believed _her_ to be a blessing from Andraste. Oh, how wrong he was in _that_, as well. If his beliefs had been truths she would have been able to save him, or at least Duncan would have tried. In the end, none of them - Andraste, the Maker, nor the Grey Warden - cared enough to prevent the deaths of the loving, honourable and dutiful.

Faith was no longer an ally as tragedy followed tragedy, consuming all hope and charity. Who was there for her to pray to? Some said the Maker had created the darkspawn, only to turn His back on the rest of His children with disregard or indifference - perhaps both. Andraste watched in silence as Her greatest allies were decimated, held captive in Alienages or driven to live as nomadic wildlings in the forests. Why did people think She would deign to help anyone else? There was no-one to turn to in these darkest of times.

From Lady of Highever to Grey Warden, then Warden Commander to Arlessa, duty had been the primary focus of her training. Something she excelled at. As the last of the Theirin bloodline, Alistair was now king. Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane, deserter and tyrant, had redeemed himself by killing the Archdemon, allowing the citizens of Ferelden to keep their faith in so-called heroes. The traitorous Howe had been dealt with. And now she had to face the ramifications of a questionable alliance with the Architect.

The people she'd encountered along her path as 'rebel' had gone on to help rebuild whatever destruction the darkspawn and General Loghain had left in their wakes. She was no longer deemed an important part of Ferelden's future, which suited her just fine. All she wanted to do these days was mourn, but the inner doubts kept niggling at her, distracting her. What if the 'newly awakened' darkspawn rebelled against The Architect, yet again? He'd already shown a lack of leadership with the actions of The First and the other Disciples. She needed to be sure that all the sacrifices made during and after the Blight were not for naught.

Her mind set on the obvious path, she quietly gathered basic necessities into her pack, making certain some potent poison was included. She would _never_ allow herself to succumb to _them_. Never become _one_ of them. With great stealth, she crept around the tents, careful to not catch the attention of the night watch. She wanted no companions on this final quest. They were needed - she was expendable. _Anyone_ could be a Commander. The people of Ferelden needed these new Wardens. Fereldans needed to continue believing in heroes. Something she could no longer be for them.

It was time to confront the creature she had struck such a terrible deal with, try to right a wrong, and put an end to the nightmares.

Elissa Cousland hoped she would be deemed worthy of standing alongside those who taught her of love, honour and duty once again.

Q.Q

_Phew…one or two more chapters to go. Waaaahhhhh._

_Heartfelt thanks to: __**Kendoka Girl, Shakespira, Ygrain33, millahnna, Lehni, ChampionTheWonderSnail, Abydos Jackson, Enaid Aderyn, JayRain, deagh, Reyavie, mutive, interesting2125 and midnight vinyls**__._


	29. Niall

_BioWare created…_

_Sorry for disappearing. Blame Skyrim and ASOIAF… ;D _

_Egads! One more after this! _

O.O

Isolation in this manner wasn't quite what he'd had in mind. The years of quiet dread, the simmering tension slowly percolating under the surface, and then the sudden, violent uprising were behind him now. He _should_ be at peace, but he wasn't. The bitterness and intolerance had not yet been put to rest, and the wisps of hatred seemed to flow through the borders of the Veil to bind him here. He could not move on.

He had always wondered about the passion, the _intensity_ of the hatred directed towards his brothers and sisters. Was it simply a lack of knowledge? Lack of education? Was it close-minded religious rhetoric? Or did it all boil down to human nature, and the innate tendency to fear anything perceived to be more powerful than they? Not everyone he'd met had been consumed by intolerance; sadly, it only took one fanatic to cause others to take up arms, rising in defense _or_ condemnation. As long as there were demons, spirits, mages, and religious zealotry, there would _always_ be conflict as history has proven time and time again. The realization saddened him.

Though a great part of his life had been spent on developing self-discipline and emotional self-control, there were far too many of his kind who lived their lives differently. He had found the simplest approach to fellowship in being kind, honest, generous, and strong for one another. Alas, the simplest way was often the most difficult, so it became the path least tread upon. To be sure, in his youth he'd seen the world as black and white, but age had changed his vision, exposing the overlapping shades of grey. And now he was just an observer, helpless in his imprisonment.

The Veil trembled and twisted as the rage built up and swelled from the city known as Kirkwall. Did the Chantry truly think the Maker would return to grace His children with His presence when such friction and hostility continued unabated, carried out in His name? Did they think Andraste would open Her arms to those spewing their twisted, corrupted words? How many more would be sacrificed before Her children chose to listen for _Her_ Song, rather than create a version to suit their own needs?

He could feel the demonic forces swirling all around him. Screeching laughter and waves of vitriolic energy heralded another lost soul, another abomination born. He closed his eyes and shuddered with revulsion. The influence of the demons grew _because_ of the antipathy and avarice; the loathing and longings of _all_ the people, not just the mages.

In life he had not been alone in his dream of a unified world, one where all were equal, all considered to be children of the Maker. Those who shared his dream, unfortunately, were usually the quietest of the group. And now in death, trapped here in the Fade, very few could hear him. Even fewer remembered what he had once stood for: _peace_.

Niall prayed the quiet ones would learn to speak, before it was too late for them all.

Q.Q

[_sniffle_]

My thanks to: _**Ygrain33, Shakespira, mutive, ChampionTheWonderSnail, interesting2125, Lehni, unknown reviewer (x 2), Abydos Jackson, JayRain, Reyavie, Enaid Aderyn and Kendoka Girl (x 2)!**_


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